


Wear It Now Like A Mantle

by cloverfield



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination Attempt(s), Canon-Typical Serious Injury, Canon-Typical Vampirism, Cast of Original POV Characters, Completely Ignoring the Concept of Homophobia, Consensual Vampirism, Established Relationship, Fai as Kurogane's Consort and Priest, Fai's Magic, Hurt/Comfort, In Which Kurogane and Fai are Actual Figures of Legend, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Kurogane as the Lord of Suwa, M/M, Multi, No Beta We Die Like Sakura-chan In Infinity, POV Original Character, Post-Series, References to 'Marital Duties', References to Canon-Typical Tragic Pasts, Resettling Suwa, Shinobi and Kunoichi, That Time Everyone Thought Fai Was A Youkai, That Time Fai Was An Actual BAMF, Vaguely Fantasy Feudal Japan, Will Fai Please Stop Being Self-Sacrificing For Once, canon-typical gore and violence, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27915025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloverfield/pseuds/cloverfield
Summary: “The rumours say Kurogane-dono married a great beauty – a foreigner, with powerful magic and a lovely face.”That the newkannushihas powerful magic is no surprise; to train under theTsukuyomihe would need to be skilled beyond even the highest expectations of the priesthood that serves the palace at Shirasagi.“I heard he has yellow hair, pale like summer grass,” chimes Momo, sweet voice full to bursting with giggles at the thought of such gossip. “Summer hair and thebluesteyes – blue like gemstones!”Omasu blinks slowly, pleased with herself. “You see? A great beauty. As befitting the Lord’s Consort.”
Relationships: Fai & the People of Suwa, Fay D. Fluorite/Kurogane, Kurogane & the People of Suwa, Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 186





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a very silly idea that Fai's abilities (magic, super speed, super healing, ability to create fire and lightning [because magic], claws and fangs and blood drinking [because vampire], etc) are, in the eyes of the people of Suwa, because he's actually a _kitsune_ , not a vampire. And Kurogane is just like "...eh, could be worse" and rolls with it.
> 
> Which naturally spawned several thousand words and an apparent plot, because such is my life. And, of course, I decided to write it in Outsider POV because _why the heck not_.
> 
> (The plot is hinted at in part one, but doesn't actually appear until part two.)

It is a beautiful morning in Suwa province, the warm sunlight a gentle balm across the new wood of the verandah, and the scent of green leaves rising with the freshness of spring.

Suwa Castle, born once again from the hours upon hours of labour that carved through stone and hewed great planks of cedar and pine, glows as though a jewel amidst the dark forest that wreathes the mountainside, and its shadow falls gentle across the town that flows up the mountain to reach towards the sky. Across the castle and its town, life continues on as much as it has for the past few seasons since the reclamation of the land: time flowing ever onwards as a river, bearing its travellers softly into the future with the past left rippling gently in its wake.

The interior of the main shrine is clean and beautiful and perfectly calm – as well it should be, seeing as Mariko has spent the morning so making sure of it. Several hours since dawn have been spent directing the polishing and sweeping and arranging of the fresh cut flowers and _sakaki_ branches to make the main hall ready for the arrival of its priest to attend it, preparations that now fall under the critical gaze of Suwa’s great Lord himself.

Kurogane-dono’s face, unlike that of the shrine he ordered built – and whose completion has been the work of Mariko and her fellow _miko_ – is not nearly so calm. Dark brows are like thunder over the red eyes that mark him as a son of Suwa, and the scowl that creases his mouth draws nervous looks from the attendants gathered around as they wait for his approval.

“It will do,” is the last he says before sweeping out, as tall and dark as any _shinobi_ from distant legend, the snap of his _hakama_ almost silent in the grace of his stride even with his footsteps heavy on the verandah. In looks he is much like his father once was, from what Mariko remembers; enough that were the Lord himself here to see the man his son has become, he would surely be overcome with fatherly pride… and perhaps no small amount of amusement, either, seeing as Kurogane-dono is so obviously anxious at the thought of his husband and consort returning from his enshrinement to take his place as _kannushi_ at last that he has been jumping at shadows for the past three days.

It is so strange to think that a man so wreathed in greatness – the _shinobi_ who served the _Tsukuyomi_ , the warrior sent on an impossible quest for the sake of honour, the _daimyo_ who returned to the ruins of Suwa and slayed the demons that laid waste to once green lands and brought tragedy to its people – could be so easily swayed by the heart, but then his father as the Great Lord before him had been known to love his wife with such passion that the memory endures even into legend; maybe it is not so strange at all that the son should follow in his father’s footsteps.

(There are not so many alive now that remember how the Lord and Lady of Suwa once were – barely a handful of survivors from the devastation that brought the province to ruin. Injury and illness claimed yet more: demon-blighted wounds and smoke from the fire another toll separate from the great battle itself. But even if the Lord and Lady had not survived, their son had lived and grown and become a legend in his own right, greater perhaps than his parents could have ever dreamed.)

“I can’t tell if the Lord is pleased to have his husband home or not,” says Hiina, once Kurogane-dono is gone. “Shouldn’t he be happy? That face is like thunder over the mountains – not the look of a man in love.”

Behind her Omasu snorts, and does not bother to hide it in her sleeve. She is an old enough woman now that she has no need for manners, unlike the young ones that hide their giggles behind their hands, and Mariko has always found her the best of company for it. “If you want to see the look of a man in love, wait until you see the husband.” She tosses her head, the iron-grey tail of her hair heavy where it falls from her shoulder. “The rumours say Kurogane-dono married a great beauty – a foreigner, with powerful magic and a lovely face.”

That the new _kannushi_ has powerful magic is no surprise; to train under the _Tsukuyomi_ he would need to be skilled beyond even the highest expectations of the priesthood that serves the palace at Shirasagi. But Mariko had not heard he was a beauty – though with how nervous Kurogane-dono seemed to be, his lover would _have_ to be.

“I heard he has yellow hair, pale like summer grass,” chimes Momo, sweet voice full to bursting with giggles at the thought of such gossip. “Summer hair and the _bluest_ eyes – blue like gemstones!”

Omasu blinks slowly, pleased with herself. “You see? A great beauty. As befitting the Lord’s Consort.” She sniffs haughtily, with some approval. Apparently one can be excused the sin of being foreign, if one were only beautiful enough.

“I suppose we’ll see for ourselves, come tomorrow – but the _kannushi-_ sama is not here yet, and there is more work to be done,” says Mariko firmly. “Beauty or not, he won’t want to see his attendants gossiping like sparrows.”

“Yes, elder sister!” Hiina looks abashed, though Momo is still smiling, daydreaming even as she flutters over to the incense burners. Omasu gives her a playful _whap_ with her fan as Momo skips past her, muttering about youthful energy – but her dark eyes are gleaming and the crease of her mouth too close to a smile to feign temper.

The province has grown much in the past year, under the direction of their new Lord: the castle fine and proud, and the town flourishing beneath its protection. It will never be the same as once it was, but perhaps in time, it may even be better.

“I bet even Kurogane-dono will smile when the _kannushi-_ sama is home!”

“Momo-chan! Stop dawdling and come help with the sweeping!”

“Coming!”

* * *

In autumn, the profit from the sale of _kanzashi_ and the new wave of city-fashion _chirime_ silk purses is enough that Daigoro’s mother starts to plan his older sister’s wedding.

“After the harvest festival, I should think. If the stall is successful, we should sell more than enough to lay in supplies.” Daigoro nods, taking down the list of orders for _bira-bira kanzashi_ stamped with the traditional emblem of Suwa Castle – more popular now than ever before, especially with the celebrations for the first anniversary of the castle’s completion approaching next month.

“There has been a rush on gingko-leaf and red maple styles,” says Itoko cheerfully, ducking around the curtains separating the front of the store from the workshop. “We need more silk if we want to make purses for the season’s turning. Every man at the festival will want to buy their sweetheart a purse made by Matsuno- _ya_!”

For a woman betrothed, she is still admirably focused on their family’s fortunes – as well she might be, Daigoro supposes, seeing as her wife-to-be is the second daughter of the largest merchant clan in the province. Satsuki-san may be shy, but her eye for numbers is the sharpest Daigoro has ever seen, and if their father were alive to see he’d be crowing over the successful marriage like a rooster on the hill.

With Itoko-ne-san and Satsuki-san taking charge of the new direction their once-humble store is heading, their combined skills will bring prosperity to all their family: Itoko with her mind for fashion trends, and Satsuki-san’s own insight into the heart of commerce make them a match that cannot be beat.

“We should make matched sets,” says Daigoro, without thinking much of it; the idea strikes like an ember from a hearth, a flicker of brilliance as he stares at the columns of figures lining his order sheet. “ _Kanzashi_ and purses to match using the patterned _chirime_ , just like we pair up the tortoiseshell combs and clips…”

The intensity of his mother’s stare makes the words dry up in his mouth, and the look on his sister’s face is nothing short of gleeful. “Daigoro! My clever son!” comes the cry and his cheeks are red as his mother’s hands, callused and clever from years of silk-work, clap his face. “You brilliant boy!”

“Well done, little brother,” teases Itoko. “We’ll have enough for _two_ weddings when we’re done!” Her eyes are glittering and mischievous, and Daigoro’s face _burns_. Of course Itoko knows about the evenings he’s been walking out with Tomoe from the Naka-family bar – he can never hide anything from his nosy sister!

The bell at the door chimes as it slides open. “Excuse me? I don’t mean to interrupt…”

“Welcome, welcome,” blurts Daigoro, saved from his sister’s keen gaze by the timely arrival of a customer. Whoever their new customer is, Daigoro is going to make sure he leaves with only the best service he can deliver. “Please, come in!”

Itoko chimes the words along with him as they turn in concert – a lifetime together on the shop floor has taught them the words of greeting as well as monks know their prayers – and it is this and this alone that saves Daigoro from stumbling over himself entirely as the Lord-Consort of Suwa, _kannushi_ of the castle shrine and husband of the _daimyo_ Kurogane-dono enters their tiny little store, ducking his head just slightly so as not to whack himself on the door frame.

 _He’s so tall_ , thinks Daigoro, dumbly, blinking helplessly as his mother squeaks in shock and his sister flushes pink right to the collar of her _kimono_. Because the man in the doorway – Fai-dono, as he is known; the name light and strange and just as beautiful as the man himself – is tall and fair and so surreal an image to be standing in the shadow of the awning, clad in dark blue _hakama_ and a _kimono_ pattern with leaping koi, the red and white stitching of their scales shimmering in the afternoon light.

“Hello,” says the second-most powerful man in the province, smiling in such a way that his eyes crinkle warmly at the corners. “I hope I’m not interrupting – I had heard that the Matsuno- _ya_ sold the best hair accessories in town, and I was hoping to buy some.” His face is fine-boned and narrow, heart-shaped with a pointed chin, and his long, straight nose turns ever up so slightly at the end: all his features foreign and strange but so very _lovely_ in spite of it.

“We certainly do,” gasps Itoko, sounding as breathless as Daigoro feels. “Hair-sticks and combs and ribbons, and not only those! We have purses and _furoshiki_ too, in every colour under heaven.”

Fai-dono’s smile grows impossibly wider, and his eyes – clear and bright and _unbelievably_ blue – seem to glow beneath the fall of his silken fringe. Fair hair sloughs like summer grass over the shoulder of his _kimono_ as he draws the tail of it through his fingers almost bashfully – and Daigoro can see the tie that binds it is a faded ribbon of once-red silk, knotted hastily on itself to hold together where its fabric has frayed. “As you can see, I need a new ribbon – my favourite one snapped just now.”

“Well!” bustles Daigoro’s mother, clapping her hands together briskly, “I dare say it is your good fortune to be here with us today – we have some lovely new patterns, made with this season’s finest _chirime_.” Her words wash over Daigoro as she launches into her professional patois, and Itoko flusters about, welcoming Fai-dono into the store with fluttering hands and sleeves.

“Would you like some barley tea?” she offers, making a _quick, quick!_ gesture to Daigoro just out of view, and taking the hint Daigoro all but runs out to the back of the shop and the kitchen behind the workshop, his heart pounding in his ears.

By the time he boils the kettle and pours the tea, his hands clattering on the tray and the nicest cup they own wobbling dangerously as he rushes it back to the front, Itoko has found Fai-dono a seat on the carved bench from behind the counter and he has taken to his perch like a crane, knees folded elegantly before him and his hands politely in his lap as he _oohs_ and _aahs_ appreciatively at the wares Daigoro’s mother parades before him.

“Thank you,” he says kindly when Daigoro proffers his tray, and the husky lilt to his voice makes his strange accent all the more lovely. In spite of himself, and the memory of Tomoe, Daigoro flushes helplessly. “You know, I really do like that one there, with the maple leaves – could you show me again, please?”

Itoko fusses alongside their mother and Daigoro retreats quietly to the corner near the counter, watching in awe as the Lord-Consort of Suwa sips gracefully at his tea, flattering and praising every product he is shown with the demeanour of a courtier, effortlessly elegant as he trails long, clever fingers over the finest of silk and ribbon. Itoko is right to fuss: a good word from this man, and their business will double, _triple_ overnight – not to mention the fashion trends he might start without a word and only their products in silent adornment of his hair!

(And it is _beautiful_ hair, beautiful like something Daigoro cannot believe is real: pale and silky-looking, a soft ripple trialling through the long strands as he loosens his worn ribbon at last and combs his fingers through it. Yellow floss shimmers like sunlight as he twists it into a knot and binds it tight with the bright red flutter of a brand-new ribbon, and as he sweeps it back over his shoulder the koi patterned on his _kimono_ seem to leap through it like a wave of gold.)

“Thank you so much, kind madam. I’ve not had a ribbon this lovely in quite a while! At least not since the last one my husband bought me,” says a smiling Fai-dono – with a _wink_ no less! – and Daigoro’s heart stutters in his chest. Distinguished warrior or not, legendary _shinobi_ of the _Tsukuyomi_ or not, no wonder the great Kurogane-dono married him: that kind of teasing allure is dangerous to _everyone_ , and especially overworked shopkeepers!

Fai-dono pays generously, refusing to accept his change with no amount of teasing charm; Daigoro’s mother blushes just like his sister as he heaps praise upon his purchase, and all three of them gasp as Fai-dono freezes in his exit, his eye caught by the loveliest comb on display at the storefront – a swallow swooping in mid-flight, with blue wings glittering and red throat gleaming like a jewel in lacquer.

“Oh, but that is so lovely,” he sighs, trailing fingertips just a whisper from touching it in its cushioned box. The longing in his eyes is unbearable – and the helpless desire to give this man everything he has ever wanted shivers through Daigoro like wildfire. He can see his sister trembling beside him with much the same urge. “But I have already dawdled enough today. Maybe another time,” sighs Fai-dono, and the wistful look on his face is just as lovely as everything else about him as he sweeps out the door.

For a long moment, Daigoro and Itoko and their mother are breathlessly silent as they watch him go, long after the door has closed. It feels like letting out a held breath, like the first gasp of air after so long underwater. And then, with the same gleam in her eye she had upon first proposing to her dear Satsuki-san, Itoko rushes over to the comb in question, scooping it up with careful fingers.

“Okaa-san, _quick_ – we have to send a courier up to the castle right away!” Daigoro trembles at the enthusiasm in her voice, ears already ringing with the sound of their future success as Itoko’s eagerness lights a fire in her eyes. “If we gift this to the Lord so _he_ can gift it to his husband… _oh!_ We’ll never want for customers ever again!”

Daigoro’s mother beams, her gentle face glowing with happiness – and her eyes gleam like coins tumbling through their hands, like the coins that _will_ tumble through their hands once the courtiers and nobles and commonfolk alike see their own haircombs caught in the _kannushi_ ’s beautiful hair.

“Dear daughter, I always knew you were my cleverest child!” And how could Daigoro even argue with _that_!

* * *

The _daimyo_ keeps his private quarters in the highest part of the castle, with a single entrance point that leads up and through the narrow hall. The walls are built high and clear of obstacle, the distant beams of the roof spaced unevenly and the ceiling far too high to leap from safely. And while the wooden floorboards are polished and lovely, rich dark wood hewn from the cedar forests that crowd the province, each step taken rings and squeaks and sings as bells chime unseen beneath the weight of Jin’s footsteps.

Nightingale floors. Once _shinobi_ , always _shinobi_.

Her approach must be obvious, but Jin kneels beside the _shoji_ to wait after she raps her knuckles gently against the wood, as is only proper; it is not long at all before her Lord’s voice calls out to her.

“Enter.”

Kurogane-dono’s inner chambers are sparsely decorated, but it is the richness of the furnishing that shows his husband’s hand: the _tatami_ are woven to smooth perfection, rasping silkily beneath Jin’s _tabi_ , and the low table that dominates the room Kurogane-dono keeps as his salon and study is the same dark cedar of the floorboards, beautiful in its carpentry. In the alcove of the _tokonoma_ , a single scroll is hung: an ink painting of a feather, serenely lovely in stark black ink. Beside and behind are the doors to his inner chambers – the flat panels of the _shoji_ painted with the shadow of a dragon in flight, silver scales gleaming. The _shoji_ are, of course, shut; but no doubt the bedchamber is just as richly decorated. Fai-dono is known to have an eye for art, and Kurogane-dono is known to have an infamously soft touch for when it comes to indulging his husband.

“Ah! Nakamura-san – please help yourself to tea, if you would like some.” Fai-dono’s voice is lilting and cheerful, and the hand that waves gently towards the tea set and table where his husband sits is stained with ink at the fingertips. “It’s still fresh, not long made.”

The tea does smell pleasant, but Jin would not dare presume to pour herself a cup before her _daimyo_ , not when she has been summoned as the newest captain of his castle guard.

“Sit,” says Kurogane-dono, still looking down at the papers on his desks – maps, and some kind of diagram which appears to depict the rivers that wind through the province. The scowl on his face suggests concentration, but then his features lend themselves easily to scowling: Kurogane-dono almost always looks as though he is displeased, even when he is very clearly not.

Behind him, and closer to the windows, the _kannushi_ has his own table: smaller, rounder, of a deep cherry wood, and almost entirely covered in sketches and inkbrushes. Fai-dono catches Jin’s eye and smiles widely as he does so, cheerfully enough that Jin has to fight the urge to smile back; she is here to report, not to be caught staring wistfully at the _daimyo_ ’s very beautiful husband.

“You have news to report from the latest patrols at the borders.” It’s not a question, but it is an invitation to speak, and Jin nods as Kurogane-dono’s eyes – striking in the shade of red his bloodline has been known for since before her grandfather’s grandfather’s time – lift to her face.

“Yes, Kurogane-dono. Twice today we found separate signs of unauthorised crossings at the south and south-east of the Suwano River.” Kurogane-dono nods, and behind him his husband turns back to his inkstone, the soft grinding sound almost soothing as he wets it down. “We also found what appears to be a cache, emptied of all goods but most definitely in active use.”

The report received by hawk had stated that the cut wood was still green, fresh from young trees, and the soil showed signs of disturbance. Campsites along the main road that lead into the province proper were not unusual, and not all travellers would take the beaten track: there were many reasons for crossing the borders outside the range of the main crossing points, and not all were sinister. Not all did not mean none, however, and with the recent unrest in the capital, it is best to be cautious.

“Smugglers are not uncommon,” says Kurogane-dono mildly. The sharpness of his eyes does not match the apparent disinterest in his tone, and Jin nods again, glancing briefly at the hands knotted in her lap. “As long as borders exist, people will cross them.”

“But at this time of year?” says Fai-dono lightly, his tone absent-minded and airy. “In this weather, with spring still a good month or two away?” The gentle rasp of his brush-strokes curls between each word, and while his fingers are certainly stained by ink there are no stray droplets soaking into paper – or his draping sleeves, the plum-coloured fabric spotlessly clean. “Kuro-sama, it seems we have some _very_ lost tourists.”

“Hn,” says Kurogane-dono, which could mean anything at all. Instead of elaborating, he watches Jin with a cool eye for a long moment, before speaking once more. “Nakamura Jin. Your uncle served under my father.” Again, not a question – or at least a question that the _daimyo_ already knows the answer to – and Jin nods.

“Yes, Kurogane _-_ dono. He served for twelve years, from the beginning of his career.” And died as the castle fell, one of the first casualties of the demonic insurgence that claimed the lives of almost the entire people of the estate. Jin had not been born then, barely a glitter in her mother’s eye, but her mother had named her for the brother she lost in the fire that night. The legacy was only a small one, in the scheme of the world: Kurogane-dono’s own legacy was far more notable than that of a guardsman’s niece, but it was a connection all the same.

Enough that Jin had felt the drive to travel back to Suwa in her family’s stead once the first stirrings of reestablishment had begun; enough that she had been almost compelled to leave her steady position as a night-watch guard in Shirasagi when the call had gone out for settlers and soldiers both.

“You are very young to be a captain,” says Kurogane-dono. Her _daimyo_ is correct, but perhaps a little unfairly so – Jin is twenty-six, which is not unheard of. It is well known that before Kurogane-dono embarked on his travels he had been the highest-ranked _shinobi_ of the _Tsukuyomi_ ’s personal guard for five years… and had been barely twenty himself when he first accepted the position, after six years of his youth spent in service in Shirasagi Castle besides.

“Kuro-sama is one to talk,” says Fai-dono cheerfully – and loudly, enough that Jin cannot help but startle. His footsteps on the _tatami_ are noiseless, perfectly silent, and the grace of each movement sets the speed in which he rises from his table to drape himself across Kurogane-dono’s shoulders at strange odds. The _kannushi_ ’s long sleeves drape over the dark cloth of the daimyo’s _haori_ , and the subtle pattern of the daimyo’s _mon_ catches the light where it is woven into the rich silk of his husband’s _kimono_. “You’re young still, ne?”

Kurogane-dono is thirty-eight.

Not what Jin would call young in truth, though he does not look it. It cannot only be the strength of his bloodline – Jin works with men and women four- or five-years younger than the _daimyo_ is now that have no claim to such a light touch from the passage of time. There is no grey in the _daimyo_ ’s dark hair, no tiredness in his posture or bearing. Even the creases at eyes and mouth are gentle still, features sharp and well-defined, and the face of the man before her is that of one in the prime of his life, with many years left to rule.

(The face of the _daimyo_ ’s consort is altogether timeless; mature and youthful all at once, and utterly bewildering in the subtle shape of his features. How old he is, Jin cannot guess – only his eyes show any sign of his age, and only in his less guarded moments. But even then, they cannot be truthful: no man alive could be as old as that deep shade of blue implies.)

There were the legends, of course. Everyone knew that the first Lady of Suwa – a priestess of some great renown – had taken a river dragon as her husband and borne his children in the fullness of time; the legacy of his blood their red eyes and the breath of his godlike power in the sword-style that had become the bane of demons of every kind. And no doubt with such a godly ancestor it was not surprising that Kurogane-dono would linger in his prime for much longer than any other man. The blood of a dragon was no less potent for all that time had thinned it down to a bare few drops: Jin’s mother had spoken at length of the _daimyo_ ’s father, and how he had been akin to a dragon himself on the battlefield. It was no wonder his son had grown to be the Lord’s equal, if not greater still.

But there is something more here, more than merely the legend of the _daimyo_ ’s bloodline; something more than the legend Kurogane-dono has made of himself, as much as he might disregard it.

It was a thing of stories: what man alive could say they ventured on a quest to save a princess from a distant land at the request of the _Tsukuyomi_ , travelling far beyond the seas and into unknown dangers, only to return triumphant with a foreign princeling bearing fierce and terrible magic as his beautiful consort? Not to mention the rumours that Kurogane-dono had made a great and awful sacrifice to save the princess, and been gifted a boon from her strange gods in return: an arm with bones of steel and the strength of ten men, forged in lightning and wrapped in skin that could not be pierced – a living weapon melded seamless to his flesh as a gift to mark their blessing!

(And just as Kurogane-dono was more than merely their _daimyo_ , the _kannushi_ himself could not be _only_ a prince, not only a powerful mage, not only a god-blessed symbol of good fortune: there had to be _more_ here, more to the way his power was the equal to his husband, more to how he could slay demons with lightning and fire and strange lights that hurt the eye. There was something more and Jin would be lying if she said she wasn’t desperate to _know_.)

“You have the handwriting of an old man, though,” continues Fai-dono, startling Jin from her musing. He is peering down at the tabletop now, blue eyes sparkling with some mischievous light, and Jin must tighten her jaw against the urge to gawk at his sly words and teasing remarks. “This map is too cluttered – you should make your notes on a separate journal, and leave this cleaner.”

The _kannushi_ is not, technically, wrong – even taking into account she is reading upside down, it is difficult for Jin to parse the layout of the maps covered in Kurogane-dono’s writing. Each character is sharp, and almost too small: the writing of a man whose notes are only for himself, and not for another’s eyes.

“You’re one to talk,” snaps the _daimyo_ , and the motion of his hand snaps as well, jerking the paper out from his husband’s grip. Fai-dono’s laughter seems to only spur him on, and Jin watches Kurogane-dono’s scowling temper gathering like stormclouds across his brow. “Five-year-olds can write better than you. I’ve read neater chicken-scratch.”

“Kuro-sama is so unkind!” whines Fai-dono, draping himself even heavier across his husband’s shoulders, and resisting all attempts to be shrugged off. To Jin’s complete astonishment, he is smiling: mouth curling as smugly as any cat, the flash of white teeth in his grin unapologetically playful, and the long tail of his pale-yellow hair catches on the grain of Kurogane-dono’s _haori_ like strands of silk floss as he tosses his head sulkily. “How could you make such a fuss in front of Nakamura-san!”

“Who’s making a fuss here?” growls Kurogane-dono, entirely unembarrassed. Fai-dono seems hardly to mind his husband’s rumbling temper; if anything, he seems to find it… _endearing_ , judging by how he presses the point of his chin against the darkness of the _daimyo_ ’s hair, and lifts one hand to stroke tenderly against the slope of his husband’s cheek even as he laughs.

Jin’s face warms. It’s almost too embarrassing to bear. It is one thing to know that their Lord’s marriage had been the kind of love-match poets write about; another entirely to actually _see_ him bicker with his husband like a couple of fifty years happily wed, every teasing call meeting its grumpy response like a _sedoka_ from a love story of long ago!

“My handwriting is lovely, I’ll have you know,” croons Fai-dono, uncaring of his husband’s derisive snort, and Jin knows that laughter would be terribly inappropriate even as it bubbles up behind the lips she keeps firmly shut. There is a twinkle in blue eyes as they catch her gaze, and Fai-dono continues with the air of one wounded even as he grins. “How mean you are to your _poor_ husband – chicken scratch indeed! No chicken could scratch this!”

Quite suddenly it seems that Fai-dono is pushing back his sleeve, silk draping heavily as it bunches at his elbow, and ink-stained fingers flicker like lightning as his left hand stretches out with deadly elegance. Beneath the ink, his fingertips are glowing: a soft white that blooms yellow, then green, then blue, and shadows dart and blur in the space between each movement as Fai-dono shapes strands of light into being with each careful movement.

A spark jumps between the first two fingers of his left hand – and Jin’s jaw drops in speechless awe as _fire_ blooms into being, stroked into burning life like ink beneath pen as Fai-dono writes upon the very air itself.

The characters he draws with fiery fingertips are unmistakeable, even backwards and blazing: _kurogane_ , etched in flame, glowing like the blue light that flares in the eyes of the _daimyo_ ’s husband as he smirks in triumph, and Jin feels something in her tremble beneath the power of that gaze as foxfire blooms by this man’s rule.

She had forgotten, perhaps, or maybe merely dismissed it in light of the greatness of Kurogane-dono himself – and what man would not fall into such a long shadow as his? But the _kannushi_ was more than a priest as much as his husband was more than the last scion of a great name, and that great name was _kurogane_ : iron and steel forged bright as dragonscale against the darkness.

 _Kurogane_ , for the man Fai-dono married; _kurogane_ , for the blood of the house that died by the demons that swarmed Suwa’s borders so many years past; _kurogane_ , for the man who reclaimed his destiny and freed their people again at long last. _Kurogane_ , too, for the _kannushi_ himself: that name now his own, through marriage if not by blood, and it too the aegis he swept over the people he ruled together with his husband.

There are no demons in Suwa. There will never be demons in Suwa again, not for the embers that waken so quickly to fire beneath the _kannushi_ ’s control – no mere demon could stand beneath such magic, and in one chilling moment Jin knows that the rumours (awed and whispered and incredulous rumours) that the _daimyo_ married a _youkai_ greater than any monster that could ever rise from cursed soil are impossibly and absolutely true. It is a fine legacy he lives up to: truly, Kurogane-dono is a son of Suwa in more than merely name, if he could take to wed a being of godly power like the first Lady herself did so many centuries ago.

“You see!” crows Fai-dono, and his teasing voice prickles like a sharp edge scraped backwards over skin, a danger that was not there before present in every word and deed now that his power is on fine display. “Kuro-sama should know better than to doubt me. My calligraphy is lovely – even lovelier than _yours_ , seeing as how I had so much less time to learn it.”

Jin is not expecting the way Kurogane-dono rolls his eyes – such a stern façade broken so easily, and with no small affection in the gesture – but the way the _daimyo_ huffs a sigh sounds more like an exasperated husband than the Lord and ruler of their land, the figure of awe known to terrify demons with only a look. “ _Che_. Those were the first _kanji_ you ever learnt. Your letter-writing is still terrible.”

Fai-dono, Jin learns, has an impressive lung capacity and an aptitude for the dramatic: he wails as though wounded, throwing himself sideways and into Kurogane-dono’s lap with his own hand clutching at his chest. “Ah! Slain by my own _husband_ – Nakamura-san, you must avenge me. Tell the people I married a cruel tyrant!”

Jin looks on helplessly, paralysed at the thought, even as the _kannushi_ bursts into something that can only be called a cackle, red spots high in pale cheeks as he laughs and _laughs_.

“Don’t tease,” says Kurogane-dono, quite bluntly, and then – to Jin’s absurd amazement – leans forward a little to huff a sharp breath at the _kanji_ glowing blue and burning just before his face. Fire snuffs out like a wick between pinched fingers, and Fai-dono gasps in exaggerated horror.

“ _Ah! My beautiful kanji! Kuro-sama, how could you?!_ ”

Kurogane-dono, apparently long immune to his husband’s theatrics, rolls his eyes again – and then looks up sharply at Jin. “Go report to the steward. If there really is movement beyond the usual at the borders, smugglers or otherwise, then we will need more regular patrols.” The line of his mouth hardens. “We will not have our sovereignty threatened.”

Fai-dono, still in his husband’s lap, looks up equally sharply, a stern look falling over him like a shadow. It is an unfamiliar look on the face of a man well known for his laughter, and all the more striking for it. “The border wards will need to be examined also – be sure to speak to Mariko-san, and alert her and the _miko_ that they will be working in concert with our soldiers.”

Jin, well aware that her Lord is watching her response with great interest lurking in the sharp fall of his gaze, bows to Fai-dono as much as she would to any general in Kurogane-dono’s army. “Yes, _kannushi_ -sama. It will be done.”

“Hn,” says Kurogane-dono, and by how the weight of his gaze lightens just slightly, Jin knows her actions were correct. The man Kurogane-dono married is not merely a bed-warmer or only a companion of the heart; he is _kannushi_ and commander and Lord-Consort, his mind for tactics just as wicked, if not more so, than his husband.

And if he is truly _kitsune_ , as all the evidence that mounts suggests, then he will fight like a cornered fox if threatened: with fury and fire and the snarl and slash of tooth and claw to protect what he calls his own. Suwa Province could not be safer under his protection, and Kurogane-dono could not have made a better match if the marriage had been arranged by the _Mikado_ herself.

Jin bows again, and at the dismissive nod she receives, moves back to the doorway. Fai-dono’s sly observance lifts from her like a cloak as he looks away, and the last thing Jin sees of them as she closes the door is the _kannushi_ smiling up at his husband as Kurogane-dono lays a hand upon his head, dark fingers threading through the pale silk of Fai-dono’s hair. They are an unusual match, at first glance, but one that promises to stand as legend throughout long years still to come.

* * *

The _daimyo_ and his entourage could almost certainly have made it home before the darkest hour of the night had they pressed onwards – but the benefit of travelling with not just the _daimyo_ but the _daimyo_ ’s sweet-spoiled husband was the urge to pamper him their Lord could not quite repress: Kurogane-dono had called the day’s travel not far from Suwa’s outskirts, and the whole lot of his retainers and guards both had slouched into the yard of the closest traveller’s inn with some relief.

True, an hour or three more on the march would have seen them all home to the castle proper, but if Fai-dono hadn’t been playfully complaining about his aching feet (despite being on horseback, no less) for the last few miles they wouldn’t have had the chance to soak up the delights of the inn’s own _onsen_ and spend the night drinking before closing out the trip, and so even the strictest among them saw fit not to begrudge the delay.

The horses had been grateful for the stabling, and the men and women of Kurogane-dono’s retinue grateful for the baths – it was so good to wash off the dust of the road with a blissfully hot soak – and now everyone was together in the inn’s great dining hall and feeling very grateful indeed for the delicious food and the free-flowing booze served up along the busy tables, paid for on their master’s generous tab.

Suwa was a young province – or, at least, young again – but she was a prosperous one, and their people had never flourished so happily under the care of a Lord or Lady like they did now under Kurogane-dono and his _kannushi_ consort; even the old folk who tended to paint the past in rosy tones could not complain about the bright future unspooling before them like a skein of silk left to roll out.

Toshikazu would not have called himself old, but he did remember what it had been like under the Lord Kurogane before _this_ Lord Kurogane – the _daimyo_ ’s late father, the last Great Lord Suwa and her people had known before the demons had burned it all down. Life had been good then, but not so good as it was _now_ , and his heart (knackered and battered and worn in all ways as the life of a soldier could make it) had found a new reason to beat in the service of a Great Name who was truly and undeniably _great_ like few had been before him.

In just a little less than ten years, the new Lord Kurogane had breathed life back into burnt and bloody soil, and forever won the love of his people as they flocked back to live under his protective shadow. And no small part of that love was reserved for the fair and wonderful Fai-dono, the prince amongst priests, whose magic was as powerful as his face was lovely, and then some besides.

(And Fai-dono’s face was _very_ lovely indeed.)

“Toshikazu-san! Over here!” If Eijiro calls any louder his voice will crack, but still he waves cheerfully across the dining hall – and Toshikazu is so warm from the baths and so relieved to be nearly home at last that even the exuberance of youth can make no dent in his good mood.

“Easy, kid – they’ll hear you back in Uedai if you keep squawking.” He crosses the hall all the same, dodging the low tables filled with good food and good cheer (and no small amount of good drink besides). It takes a while, for all that the _daimyo_ ’s retinue numbers only twenty; this inn is on the smaller side, meant mostly for the locals, and adding twenty-something people to the regular night’s trade is enough to fill the room to bursting. Still, Toshikazu finds his way to the low table closest to the kitchen, and takes a seat in sighing relief as Eijiro fills the cup waiting for him.

“You finished up quick in the baths,” remarks Toshikazu, more for something to say than any true intent, and accepts his now-full cup as Eijiro sets it before him with a nod of appreciation.

“Mm, the first shift went in a little late and so I hadn’t quite finished when you and the second shift came through. Fai-dono was in the baths first of everyone and, _well_.” Eijiro flushes. No one wanted to disturb the Lord’s husband at his bathing, even in the public baths. _And,_ thinks Toshikazu with no small amount of amusement, _no one wants to risk the Lord’s wrath at seeing his beloved undressed either._

Kurogane-dono had gone in with his soldiers, of course; their Lord was born and raised to Nihon’s cultural norms and cared not a whit for the comfortable nudity of the baths. Who would? Skin was only skin, and the men and women of his service were more interested in the hot food and cool _sake_ waiting outside the baths than what was on display in them even as they scrubbed up for a soak.

(And yeah, maybe the new recruits did gawk a little at first – Kurogane-dono was no stranger to battle, and the scars to prove it were writ large across his skin. It was an intimidating sight, if you weren’t prepared for it, and more than a few eyes caught on the scar at their Lord’s left shoulder, where his arm met his body. That mark told of how the _daimyo_ had sacrificed his own flesh and bone to save a life, and been gifted a new arm with bones of steel as a blessing in return.)

But Fai-dono was a foreigner, and a highborn one at that; it was only right that he was treated with more caution than the soldiers and servants that peopled Suwa’s ruling estate. More caution, and considerable respect, besides; without thought of Kurogane-dono’s temper provoked, the _kannushi_ himself was no wilting flower even in his shyness – no one who had seen him in battle wanted such fearsome skill turned on them in misunderstanding.

(Toshikazu rather liked having his head on his shoulders, where it belonged.)

“ _Tch_. Have a drink and cool down kid – your face must be _burning_.”

Eijiro flusters a little, squinting over the rim of his cup as he takes a sip. He’s still pink-cheeked, but now at least he has the drink to disguise it. “I wasn’t – I don’t – ugh, _Toshikazu-san_ ,” and this last is almost a whine. “Do not tease! I have enough of that from the _miko_!”

Said _miko_ are at the tables nearest to the main table, where the _kannushi_ himself sits with his husband beside him, and fair enough the pair of them are laughing quietly amongst themselves, the young one giggling behind her sleeve as her senior sister gestures widely with her cup. Not far behind them the _kannushi_ is engaged in eager conversation with another of his attendants: the young captain of the castle guard, her face solemn in contrast to Fai-dono’s wide grin.

“Don’t let it bother you, Eijiro-kun,” says Toshikazu, taking a moment’s bemused pity. It’s hard to be the new recruit, and such a young one besides. Eijiro is no combatant, but a surveyor’s apprentice, on his way to mastery; the maps he has been tasked at sketching out the reason he was invited on the Lord’s sojourn to the Uedai settlement in the first place.

Eijiro sighs and takes another gulp. It’s a poor idea, seeing as he splutters a bit, but he downs the rest of his cup with embarrassed haste to cover it.

Toshikazu sips his own. Good drink isn’t to be rushed. Still, that’s more fluster than there should be for such a casual remark. “You got something else on your mind?”

Eijiro jumps, almost upending the jug on the table as one hand thumps down. The bowl of fruit atop the table runner jolts, nearly spilling _mikan_ all over the place – but Toshikazu catches one as it topples out and drops it back in place with an exasperated huff as their neighbours the table over laugh.

“Seriously, what’s got your _obi_ all twisted up?”

Eijiro glances up at Toshikazu himself, and then away – but his eyes flick across the room in spite of his obvious effort not to, and it’s easy for Toshikazu to guess where he’s looking: the main table, where Kurogane-dono is pouring his husband’s drink and Fai-dono is waving his hands about in conversation, the dark blue folds of his sleeves pooling at his elbows. The cloth is a finer make than the inn’s own _yukata_ , certainly one of the _kannushi_ ’s own, and its dark colour brings the brightness of his eyes and the fair colour of his hair and skin into lively contrast.

 _Ah_.

Toshikazu chuckles. “I wouldn’t keep thinking about the _kannushi_ -sama naked, not unless you wanna end up skewered on the business end of _Ginryuu_. The Lord has little patience for anyone making eyes at his husband.”

“ _What!_ ” and the coughing fit that takes Eijiro over nearly kills him, for how hard he splutters and wheezes. “Toshikazu-san, _no_! I would not _dare_ to–!”

Laughing, Toshikazu claps a hand across Eijiro’s skinny back, giving a playful pat to help chase away his cough through the thin cloth that wraps him. “Alright, alright – you definitely weren’t thinking about that, eh?”

“No!” says Eijiro, indignant, puffing his narrow chest up like one of the brown sparrows that flit about Suwa Castle’s eaves in spring. It doesn’t quite work while wearing only the _yukata_ the inn provided. “I was thinking about Kurogane-dono’s _scars_ – he has so many, and some of them are so _big_ , I just…”

Toshikazu, naturally, takes the bait. “Eh? So the Lord himself caught your eye? I suppose he’s so handsome you couldn’t help yourself, and fair enough. Still, I wouldn’t let yourself get _too_ carried away. Fai-dono might be a kind man but he isn’t a soft one, and I don’t think you’ll like being banished from the castle – if he doesn’t curse you first.”

This time Eijiro stares at him speechlessly, jaw open and aghast. Toshikazu takes the opportunity to top both their drinks up, completely ignoring the kid’s fruitless attempts to muster his words.

“I didn’t,” stutters Eijiro finally, after a few moments of half-gasped and helpless stammering. He flushes some more – this time all the way up to his ears. “It’s not – _I wasn’t_!” More fluster, and Toshikazu would be concerned except that he’s seen this before, and he knows the kid has at least a shade or two darker of blush to go before he gets himself into trouble.

Eijiro swallows heavily, throat bobbing with a gulp. “I didn’t mean _those_ scars. I meant. The new – the _new_ cuts. Um.”

“Eh?” This time Toshikazu does have to blink, eyeing the kid over the rim of his cup. “What cuts?”

There’s been no fighting, no skirmishes; nothing even approaching violence has marred this casual sojourn to the latest of the satellite settlements springing up in the east of the province. Even the _kannushi_ himself had remarked how oddly quiet their trip had been, and everyone knew he much preferred not to have to get his hands dirty if he could help it!

(Not that the _kannushi_ could not fight, no. The Lord-Consort of Suwa was just as capable of terrible, wonderful violence as Kurogane-dono himself, and Toshikazu would not ever forget the day he’d first seen fire and lightning jump from those clever scholar’s hands.)

“The cuts on Kurogane-dono’s shoulders,” mumbles Eijiro, red in the cheeks and with eyes glazed more than his half-drunk _sake_ could really account for. “And his, his hips. And – and his…” Eijiro trails off into a blushing stutter, and his mostly empty cup becomes totally empty as he throws it back with choking haste.

“Eh?” says Toshikazu again, and thinks back to that evening’s bath with more concern than such an idle topic really deserves.

Yes, Kurogane-dono had been in the baths with the rest of them, scars and all, and the kid _had_ been staring in some horror at the rippling tapestry that marked his back, but Toshikazu had not seen anything to be worried over; each wound was several years old at the least, and well healed even if they were ugly. Whatever had wounded Kurogane-dono so had not killed him – despite its best efforts otherwise – and he moved with the comfortable ease of a warrior well in tune with his own body: no hitch or strain in any movement to speak of lingering injury.

Perhaps they were interesting if you had not seen the wounded survivors in the aftermath of a demon attack before, or were something of a sheltered youngster as this new generation surely was – and thank the gods for that! – but Kurogane-dono had been scarred since long before Suwa had risen once more and had not, in the years since Toshikazu had come to serve him, suffered an injury that demanded anything like the level of fuss implied by Eijiro’s tone.

Toshikazu takes a drink, and swallows slowly while thinking. He vaguely remembers noting some smaller scratches at his Lord’s shoulders (and at hips and buttocks and all down his back) but not anything that deserved Eijiro’s fluster; _those_ were only the marks of Fai-dono’s claws, and–

 _Ah_. The kid really was sheltered, wasn’t he?

“Eijiro-kun,” drawls Toshikazu, and with no small amount of amusement, “you mean to say the _scratches_? The ones Kurogane-dono wears at hip and shoulder?” Wears proudly at that, and no wonder with how he earned them.

“Yes!” hisses Eijiro, ducking behind his sleeve as though afraid to be overheard. “Those ones! How could _anyone_ lay a finger on such a fierce warrior as the Lord?”

Toshikazu sighs. “If I’m to explain this, I’ll need another one of these first.”

Eijiro, still flushed, pours liberally into the cup Toshikazu waves under his nose. Across the dining hall, Fai-dono is laughing, the sound ringing clear across the chatter of the crowd. Kurogane-dono, apparently well aware of his husband’s tendency to drink all and sundry under the table, is topping up his cup (and sweeping the long trail of his husband’s sleeve off the table and back into his lap before it causes Fai-dono to knock the jug over).

“You’ve not been long with us, have you kid?” Eijiro shakes his head, which is about what Toshikazu expected. He squints at him. “How old’re you?”

“Seventeen last summer,” says Eijiro, squinting back in turn. “Why?”

 _Gods have mercy, he’s just a babe in swaddling._ Toshikazu is far too old to be explaining this to a child, but needs must – at least, if he wants to stop Eijiro walking around as red-faced as a plum. “You see, Eijiro-kun, when a man loves his husband very much–”

Eijiro squawks loudly, and then ducks down in his seat. “What! _I know what it means to be married thank you_ ,” he blurts, all in a rush, “and I _don’t_ need to think about how the Lord fulfils his– _his marital duties!”_ and Toshikazu cannot stop himself from snorting with laughter, hard enough that his nose stings from a mouthful of liquor haphazardly inhaled.

A few curious glances cut their way – good-natured and bemused one and all – and Toshikazu waves them off, mopping his chin with his sleeve and putting his cup safely back on the table, lest he spill the damn thing further. Eijiro, predictably, looks scandalised.

Maybe approaching the subject so baldly is not the best tactic, but Toshikazu is at a loss from where to go from here. If the kid is so prudish that he can’t draw the connection between the _daimyo_ ’s ‘marital duties’ and the very obvious marks of his husband’s passion scored into his back, Toshikazu is going to have to draw him a damned picture. Somehow.

Toshikazu pinches his nose, scowls down at the table – and stares the answer right in the face. “Look. Have you ever seen Fai-dono peel a _mikan_?”

Eijiro blinks harder, now almost completely red in the face. The colour is more booze than not, probably, seeing how his eyes take a moment too long to focus as he peers up at Toshikazu. “ _Mikan_? What does fruit have to do with–?”

Before the kid can splutter himself into conniptions, Toshikazu grabs one of the _mikan_ in question from the basket laid upon the table for guests, and without thinking about how badly this could go wrong, whips it as quickly and as forcefully as he can towards the head table.

It’s a decent throw, and if his missile had been an arrow or even a more rounded piece of fruit, it would have been faster, but it’s not half-bad for a half-drunk whim. Predictably and unerringly, Kurogane-dono snaps his head in their direction as soon as Toshikazu lets fly, but before he can take action Fai-dono’s hand snaps out in a snake-like strike of startling speed to catch the unfortunate piece of fruit without even turning to see it. In fact, Fai-dono is still continuing mid-conversation with his stunned seat-mate, apparently oblivious to the awestruck stares turning his way.

Eijiro gawks, again. Toshikazu nods politely at his Lord as Kurogane-dono narrows his eyes with some suggestion of retribution, but Fai-dono’s delighted exclamation of “Oh! A _mikan_ – how lovely!” seems to be enough to save their skin for now, and red eyes turn their forceful gaze away.

“You just threw a piece of fruit at the _kannushi_!” gasps Eijiro, no longer speechless, and with enough volume that there will be no doubt of who, exactly, is responsible for attempting to pelt the Lord-Consort of Suwa with citrus.

Fai-dono’s lilting voice carries easily, floating above the chatter that fills the dining hall. “Kuro-sama, don’t scowl. Your face will get stuck and you’ll scare the children.” There are, in fact, no children about the dining hall at the moment – unless one counts the barely-grown stripling sitting next to Toshikazu, of course. “Besides, I could use a snack.”

True to his word, Fai-dono has already turned his interest back to the _mikan_ in hand, curling his fingers gently around it as he makes to split the peel. And, just as Toshikazu knew they would, the nails of Fai-dono’s long and clever fingers extend with sudden violence, growing sharp and deadly in the blink of an eye as they burst into _claws_.

The noise Eijiro makes is some kind of terrified, though no one else seems to notice. It is well known amongst the folk of Suwa Castle that Fai-dono is not only a skilled _kannushi_ with powerful magic, but a creature of legend in his own right: one with entrancing beauty, one that controls fire and lightning, one whose very body is a weapon in of itself. Claws are not the least of it, and woe betide the fool who assumes the cheerful veneer of courtier’s tricks and carefully calculated impropriety is the truth of the matter – beneath that soft and pretty skin beats the heart of a beast as deadly in his devotion as any fox-bride from folktale.

(Toshikazu still remembers the first time he saw it: the flickers of gold, ember-bright and _burning_ in those blue eyes as Fai-dono’s smiling mouth thinned to a lethal line, facing down the last dregs of demonspawn that clung to Suwa’s forests like bloodstains, dark and rotten and ready to be banished. Fire, in that terrible gaze: gilt-edged and _hungry_ , and the black ichor that spilled across thirsty soil had fallen like rain beneath the slash of claws just as it did beneath the edge of his husband’s blade.)

Fai-dono’s claws make quick work of his _mikan_ , splitting it into neat pieces with barely any effort at all, and the ribboning strips of peel float away from the juicy segments inside like flower petals, pattering gently to the tabletop below. Nine out of ten claws shrink, retracting back into normal fingernails, but the tenth – the first finger of the left hand – remains extended, delicately piercing segments of the _mikan_ to bring up to his lips.

“Those – he has–” stammers Eijiro, eyes as round as bowls. “Like a beast!” he whispers, and then stops, staring as Fai-dono picks at his fruity treat with careless enjoyment. Fai-dono runs the edge of his claw’s blade along his tongue to catch the juice as any other man might with a knife, and with the same thoughtlessness besides. “Claws,” Eijiro says after only a moment. “The _kannushi_ -sama has– _oh_.”

There’s a world of meaning in that _oh_ , as the stars align and enlightenment comes upon Eijiro like the breath of a god – and the blush upon his cheeks fades when hot blood sweeps from his face to leave shocked pallor in its wake, as how, exactly, Kurogane-dono may have earned the marks of those claws he wears with the same pride as any other scar dawns on the kid at long last.

“Mm,” says Toshikazu, and takes a well-deserved sip of his drink. “You see? I do not think Kurogane-dono has any care at all for a handful of nicks and cuts earned in play.” The fresh ones Eijiro glimpsed in the baths would hardly be the first their Lord has borne, either; if the giggling gossip of the house servants is to be believed, the Lord of Suwa is _very_ attentive to his marital duties and his beautiful, dangerous husband.

Any man would be, with a husband like _that_ : fair hair, as pale as sunlight in winter; soft skin, blushing pink at the curve of his mouth and the arch of his wrists in a rosy shade that begs for kissing attention. A sly and clever face with impossibly blue eyes, the curve of his elegant neck baring the sensual slope of his nape, and every move he makes graceful and sure – and the ability to strike a demon down to ash from thirty paces with only a casual flick of burning fingertips, not to mention the apparent strength of a man three times his size and the killing aim of the best and keenest of archers.

It makes Toshikazu sigh, somewhat grumpily. It’s true – all the best of men are married, and all the ones that _aren’t_ wouldn’t give an old soldier the time of day.

Eijiro blinks, again, somehow managing to look prissy and stupefied all at once. “What? No, Toshikazu-san – the cause of the cuts is obvious. Kurogane-dono and Fai-dono were sparring in the dojo back at Uedai Castle before we left; no doubt the _kannushi_ -sama resorted to his claws as a means of defence.”

This time, it is Toshikazu’s turn to stare.

“Not that I mean to imply such is underhanded – after all, Kurogane-dono was _shinobi_ once, and a _shinobi_ will use all weapons available, regardless of honour,” recites Eijiro earnestly, as though reading from a textbook. “It is only fair that Fai-dono used the advantage claws would give one in hand-to-hand combat. If one fights a tiger, does not one expect it to use its fangs?”

The _kannushi_ has fangs, also, as any _kitsune_ would; this anyone can see clearly whenever the man laughs, unashamed and loudly with the subtle points of his teeth on display. No doubt if Eijiro were to catch sight of the love-bite sunk deep into the arch of the _daimyo_ ’s neck or the meat of his shoulder – one of many such loving wounds littering scarred skin like a map of stars leading to paradise – he would explain _that_ away too as something as equally ridiculous.

Despair hits Toshikazu in a wave, fit to drown under. Eijiro, for all that his charts are some of the most painstakingly accurate Toshikazu has ever seen, is an idiot – and Toshikazu not nearly drunk enough to even _attempt_ to argue with him.

“Absolutely,” says Toshikazu, and takes a very long drink of his _sake_. Enough to drain his cup entirely, in fact. “If you ever have the chance to witness the Lord and his Consort sparring, you should be grateful: it’s very educational.” Educational is not nearly the right word, but Toshikazu despairs of making his point any clearer. “They are a spectacular match in combat skills.”

And the bedchamber too, clearly, though Kurogane-dono would very obviously make any man fool enough to comment such in his hearing pay for it dearly (and painfully). Except Eijiro, who apparently has no idea of what small pains can make one’s marital duties all the more pleasurable.

“I hope I can see it one day,” says Eijiro brightly. “I really think I’d learn a lot!”

Across the dining hall, and apparently oblivious to the gossip about his prowess, in combat or otherwise, Fai-dono is teasing his husband with a segment of _mikan_ held delicately between two fingertips. His claws are no longer in sight, tucked neatly away, and Kurogane-dono is muttering something grumpily as Fai-dono scatters tiny droplets of juice in his direction.

To the surprise of no one whatsoever, the argument is won by Fai-dono handily, and the _daimyo_ accepts a piece of fruit with a scowl and begrudging acquiescence, making Fai-dono laugh as his husband snatches it from between clever fingers with a snap of his teeth.

“I have no doubt,” says Toshikazu, and looks forlornly into the depleted jug of sake on their table. It is going to be a very long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bira-bira kanzashi: hair ornaments with pretty dangly bits  
> chirime: patterned silk  
> daimyo: a 'great lord' or 'great name' - a feudal lord in service to the shogun or emperor  
> haori: an overcoat  
> kannushi: a priest dedicated in service to a particular shrine and kami  
> kanzashi: hair ornaments  
> mikan: a small citrus fruit similar to an orange or mandarin  
> miko: a priestess or shrine attendant  
> mon: a crest or emblem, usually belonging to a family or political organisation  
> sedoka: a call-and-response style of romantic poem  
> shinobi: a ninja  
> shoji: sliding doors with thin paper panels  
> tabi: split-toed socks  
> tatami: woven straw matting  
> tokonoma: an alcove for a small shrine or scroll


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Suwa Castle is clad in her finest today, on this the tenth anniversary of her grand completion.
> 
> The gold leaves of the gingko drift in lazy spirals, and the twilight-purple haze of the blooming wisteria paint the stonework with splashes of colour to catch the eye as they drape down from the trees that line the promenade. The brilliant heads of the camellia nod drowsily as the breeze rustles through the gardens, scattering petals that fade from red to pink to white, and the violets and primrose dappled through greenery shimmer with the jewel-like specks of rain from the briefest of spring showers – only a few minutes past now, and catching by surprise the crowds that shrieked and laughed as they scattered for the awnings and verandah lining the great and winding path that leads through to the heart of the castle.
> 
> “Ah! Kuro-sama, I told you we should have brought a parasol!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not expecting this to have a plot, _and yet_. 
> 
> [helpless gesturing at all of This] 
> 
> Hope you like your post-series married-husbands-in-resettled-Suwa-province fic with lashings of hurt/comfort and just a little (a lot) of unexpected gore splashed in there for flavouring, because that's what we're dishing up ♥
> 
> (I wouldn't worry too much - I promise it all works out alright in the end, despite any implications that it may be otherwise.)

The first three assassination attempts fail.

This is no surprise to anyone at all, and particularly not Chiyome. Every attempt made so far was _expected_ to fail in truth – it would be ridiculous and more than a little embarrassing for the _daimyo_ if he died by such simple means.

The poisoned foodstuffs disguised as trade goods never made it past the border inspections; all were promptly discarded and burnt for being of questionable quality. The _kunoichi_ chosen to infiltrate the castle guard could not pass the basic training examination, and were sent away to find work as tradespeople in the commercial district. And, perhaps most tellingly, the _shinobi_ behind the effort to sneak a handsome young man into the _daimyo_ ’s bed as a poisoned honeypot had been laughed out of the first inn in town before he’d done little more than open his fool mouth to announce his intentions!

Still. None of those attempts had been anything close to serious; each intended more as pointed observation than anything else.

Unlike the eight following attempts.

Each and every one of those had _also_ failed – foiled in equal parts by fair weather fortune and no small amount of healthy precaution, seeing as Suwa Castle’s defences remain tight as a drumskin years after it was rebuilt. It is said by the commonfolk that the _daimyo_ had once been _shinobi_ of considerable (and lethal) skill; Chiyome must agree that it is almost impressive to note that five separate _shinobi_ from her clan had died in as many forays, and some of them quite nastily so at that.

One very unlucky soul in particular had fallen for the old ‘install fake beams in the roof and saw them in half’ trick: the thin layers of paper painted to resemble woodgrain holding a particular beam together had not borne up beneath the weight of even their most acrobatic agent, leaving him to plummet down into a waiting pit-trap filled with sharpened bamboo stakes.

(One or two such fake beams were expected as part of any castle’s natural fortifications; it was even common for a handful more beams to be dangerous footing purely from neglect. But for the structure of the roof to be designed so that _damn near every second beam_ _was a trap waiting for a victim_ was a level of paranoia that approached terrifying!)

Classic infiltration tactics had not worked; had only achieved in their failure a tightening of security measures to make each subsequent attempt harder. Their target was unusually clever, apparently very knowledgeable of classical _shinobi_ techniques, and much too dangerous to confront directly. Better instead to play the long game, to weaken the _daimyo_ ’s protection from the inside while waiting for an opportunity to strike.

_“Chiyo-san! Please help take these lanterns over to the main stage!”_

“Coming!”

The girlish giggle is as fake as Chiyome’s smile, and the clumsiness in her gait even more so: Chiyome learnt to balance in _geta_ with far higher pegs than these when only a child; the woman she is now has to put real effort into hiding her natural grace, playing the role of helpful but clumsy maidservant with an enthusiasm that belies her true purpose. Pretty robes to hide the scars of violent assignation wrought upon her body; clever makeup to muddle her features and make her face cute, but unremarkable; a sweet and lilting voice to make her seem younger than she truly is – and just a little dim at that, playing up a tendency to daydream as a cover for her exploration of the castle grounds.

Months have been spent in cover, for the opportunity this grand celebration now provides; months spent in careful planning, in subtle sabotage, in stolen moments spent smuggling supplies and planting crucial elements in hidden caches. But now, with the tenth anniversary celebrations in full bloom and Suwa’s borders thrown open to visitors from every neighbouring province and even the capital itself, her clan has taken the chance offered up on a serving platter.

This will not be the last attempt on Kurogane-dono’s life, but it will certainly be the most cunning so far – and should it too fail the price of the contract will _triple_ at the very least.

“Excuse me – oh, I’m _so sorry_ – whoops, how clumsy! Haha!”

It’s easy enough to wiggle her way through the crowd, dodging back and forth past more castle staff and the gathering commonfolk, but there are very many more people lining the great promenade to the castle entrance than there was this morning; even the long and sloping road up the hill is lined with stalls and celebration, the excited chatter of the crowd a wave to surf as Chiyome makes her way to the huge stage erected before the castle’s shrine.

A large area has been roped off with banners and streamers, fencing out the gawkers and curious children ringing its expanse, and the front of the shrine’s main hall is almost completely obscured by the large structure built around it: three days of hurried but excited construction to build the most impressive stage one could see outside a capital city theatre. The floorboards are bright and polished, the backdrop built with a clever set of pulleys and rope to quickly switch settings and bring scenery changes to life like magic – there are even sneaky trapdoors built in the stage and hidden areas angled carefully away from the audience for the use of firecrackers and smoke as effects to dazzle those watching!

If Chiyome didn’t know exactly how every trick of the stage was pulled, she would be impressed. But _shinobi_ is as _shinobi_ does, and any child raised in the bright paint and deep shadow of the theatre knows a friend of a friend whose uncle is a _ninja_ – and sometimes, they’re even right.

(Her clan has _always_ been the greatest at hiding in plain sight.)

“Hello there – do you know where I need to take these?” calls Chiyome, approaching the edge of the stage by the large wooden stairs leading to its platform. Every step, every movement, every flicker of her eyes and smile from her mouth is a performance, and all the world her audience: _anyone_ could be watching, and in a place as wild with delighted celebration as Suwa Castle, no doubt everyone is.

[alert] she signs with two fingers, and the man by the backdrop touching up the painting of a great mountain castle (a castle not unlike the one that looks down over this province, in fact) makes a show of glancing across at her and giving directions for where to take the lanterns in a thickly accented drawl – and flicks two, then three fingers in the corresponding signs for [acknowledged] and [preparations complete] in subtle riposte while doing so.

“Hey there young miss – you need to head on ‘round the back. Call out for Tsuya-chan – she knows where you need to go!”

Tsuya, if Chiyome remembers correctly, is the codename for the lead _kunoichi_ on duty, and the actress charged with playing the role of the Princess for this evening’s play.

Two more stagehands swagger by, their black costumes in a deeper shade of black than a real _shinobi_ would ever wear, trading bright greetings and shadowing their smiles with flickering fingerspeech as Chiyome passes – much too subtle to be noticed by anyone who had not been schooled in its complex symbols since the first buds of their milk teeth.

[one hour] and [ammunition live] is the report, and Chiyome grins gormlessly as the lead actress Tsuya sashays into view. Her lovely _kimono_ is layered in the imperial style, as befits one portraying the great and mystical _Tsukuyomi_ , and the bells of her headpiece chime like the evening breeze as she dips her head.

“You’re just in time, darlin’ – we need those lanterns along the way for the castle top.” The country lilt to her words is as thick as syrup and twice as sweet, but the steely glint in cold, cold eyes matches the quick and vicious flicker of her fingers in the shadows of her sleeve: [report] [target location] [time]

The string of lanterns flutters between Chiyome’s hands in a sweeping gesture of excitement as she hands it off to a nearby stagehand, and she dashes with clacking _geta_ across the back of the stage, to where the large and handsome dragon-head roof-pieces have been sculpted from wood cleverly painted to resemble stone. Inside the wooden shell of one of them is a modified cannon-piece, ready and loaded with harpooning bolts: a cruel and clever piece of death-in-waiting, hidden perfectly in the dragon’s mouth. It had taken months to smuggle the components slowly across Suwa’s borders, _months_ of Chiyome plotting and sneaking and hiding metal pieces in careful caches throughout the castle grounds while avoiding detection by the very thorough guard patrols, and here it is assembled at last and masterfully disguised. The floating world remains as beautiful and intangible as ever: nothing here is ever as it seems.

“Wow! They look so real!” [target location] [confirmed] and the sign for Suwa itself, then [one hour] – and indeed it is only one hour until the show begins and the honourable Lord takes his seat beside his Consort upon the carefully prepared pavilion awaiting him. Kurogane-dono will have the best seat in the house to see the play – and to meet his death as it comes before him in clever costume.

A smiling princess may be a cruel commander; a stone dragon’s head the sly mouthpiece of a terrible weapon. _Daimyo_ are _daimyo_ and _shinobi_ , _shinobi_ – their wars played out on different stages. _Daimyo_ kill with the weapons of their armies and the loyalty their names command, and _shinobi_ shed blood with the mastery of an artist at the canvas, ink brush in hand. The world will not miss one more Lord among Lords, no matter how great the name that birthed him.

“You best get goin’, sweetheart,” croons Tsuya, and the graceful curl of her wrist as she moves one hand to adjust her hairpiece is artistry in itself – and the perfect distraction from the fingers that flick with quick signing in the drape of her lovely sleeves. “The play will start soon – you’ll want to find yourself a good seat, now.”

[adopt position] [strike estimate][two hours] are her orders as signed and Chiyome grins bashfully, playing up the shy young girl stunned by the beautiful actress in front of her. “Oh – I promise I’ll get a good seat! I’m so excited to see your troupe perform!”

“As you should be, darlin’ – tonight’s performance will be like nothin’ you’ve ever seen.” Tsuya purrs the words, the painted curve of her mouth sweetly lethal. Her face may be made up to resemble the Tsukuyomi’s demure beauty, but her eyes are those of an assassin: a killer without regret if paid the right price.

“You got it!” chirps Chiyo, and the excitement in her voice is easy. “Can I…” and here she affects bashfulness once more, biting her lip to force a flush to her face. “Can I come back stage after the show to see you again?” The words are those of a young girl overwhelmed by a beautiful actress, and Chiyome flutters her hands together to sign [further orders] in the guise of twisting the band of her _obi_ nervously.

“Oh, darlin’…” says Tsuya playfully, pouting as one hand comes to rest lightly against her powdered cheek, perching like a butterfly on the petals of a white flower. “I think I would like that,” she teases, although the short, sharp flickers of her fingers make a lie of her invitation: [retreat][maintain cover][report]

There will be no backstage assignation for Chiyome; instead, she is to make her way out of the castle amid the chaos of the _daimyo_ ’s death, still in cover as a helpless servant thrown into despair at the death of her Lord, and return back to headquarters to issue her report. It is unlikely Tsuya and her crew will survive, even if – even _when_ – the attack is successful, but such is the lot of _shinobi_ : to die for failure, and to die for success all the same, and it will be Chiyome’s responsibility to make sure their names go down in honour in the annals of the clan. No doubt the Lord’s Consort will order their execution – assuming of course he is not simply so grief-stricken as to follow his husband into death.

From what Chiyome has seen of the _kannushi_ , his marriage to the _daimyo_ is most certainly a love match: by no means a politically-driven and coolly indifferent affair such as one might expect from the ruling class. It’s clear to one and all that the _daimyo_ dotes upon his beautiful consort like a besotted newlywed, and the _kannushi_ himself is not shy at all about demonstrating his affection through his strange and foreign mannerisms. Even such a lowly servant as the one Chiyome has played the part of for the past few months has seen it on fine display, the _kannushi_ shameless in his teasing affections and his husband equally as shameless in his indulgence. Such a pampered creature is sure to die of heartbreak, if he cannot find the courage to take the blade to himself; it is almost a pity that such a love story as this one will come to such a violent end.

Almost.

“I – I can’t wait!” flusters Chiyome, voice rising in pitch to an enthusiastic squeal, and the clap of her hands hides the sign for [acknowledged] as she spins about, sleeves flapping. Her _geta_ clack across the stage clumsily as she skitters down the steps, and the cheerful grin she brings to bear is the only sign of her eagerness for the mission’s success – one easily disguised as her excitement for the play itself. “I’ll be watching!”

The laughter that sees her off is another facet of Tsuya’s perfect disguise: glittering and airy, her lilting voice almost cloyingly sweet. It will be a shame for such a talented _kunoichi_ to be retired so forcefully, but without her cunning hand it is unlikely the plan would have succeeded at all, and the only thing worse than a failed mission is the pointless death of those sent upon it. The glory and coin that will rain upon their clan upon the death of the greatest _daimyo_ of this age will make them the envy of the shadow world in its entirety, and there will only be more coin to come once it is known which shinobi were responsible: this contract will only prove their name for the most difficult of assassinations.

(And if they should fail, _well_ – they will simply raise the price for the next attempt. Their sponsor is not like to stop at merely one more failure, and the cost of the lives lost will be drive the cost of their clan’s efforts to new and dizzying heights. In life or death, the _daimyo_ will prove himself the most valuable target their clan has ever taken.)

As she reaches the main promenade – momentarily freed from her farce of a role as a servant - Chiyome is not so caught in pleasant thought that she can mistake the sight of the _daimyo_ browsing in the distance with his guard in attendance; he is recognisable from a hundred paces in his looming stature, even were it not for the stunning man draping himself over the arm his husband offers, and the brightly painted parasol swung casually over a broad shoulder. They are a handsome couple, it cannot be denied, but Chiyome has never made the mistake of becoming attached to a target. It matters not the kindness the _kannushi_ is famed for, or the even hand the _daimyo_ is known to rule with: their ruin has been bought and paid for, and all that is left for them is the death that comes tonight by black powder and black deed.

And so it is that Chiyome turns her feet away from the stone path scattered with bright leaves and brighter petals for the shadow of the verandah, slipping into the anonymity of the crowd as one amongst many. It is some time still until sunset and the beginning of tonight’s performance – she will have time to prepare her message cylinders for sending by hawk, if she is careful, and still make it back to the stage amongst the thronging of the commonfolk to witness their Lord’s demise.

* * *

Even Suwa Castle is clad in her finest today, on this the tenth anniversary of her grand completion.

The gold leaves of the gingko drift in lazy spirals, and the twilight-purple haze of the blooming wisteria paint the stonework with splashes of colour to catch the eye as they drape down from the trees that line the promenade. The brilliant heads of the camellia nod drowsily as the breeze rustles through the gardens, scattering petals that fade from red to pink to white, and the violets and primrose dappled through greenery shimmer with the jewel-like specks of rain from the briefest of spring showers – only a few minutes past now, and catching by surprise the crowds that shrieked and laughed as they scattered for the awnings and verandah lining the great and winding path that leads through to the heart of the castle.

“Ah! Kuro-sama, I told you we should have brought a parasol!”

The cheer in Fai-dono’s voice gives warmth to his teasing mien – and Kurogane-dono is proven to be no hen-pecked husband, simply shaking the scatter of water from his _haori_ with a flick of its panels, sending it pattering to cobblestone pavers barely wet enough to be slick. The rain has caught in Fai-dono’s hair, a spray of droplets caught like pearls in skeins of silk-thread, and Jin stifles a grin at how her _daimyo_ takes the waxed-paper parasol she offers with nothing more than a roll of his eyes.

“See? Nakamura-san came prepared – at least _someone_ here wants to keep me from catching a cold,” croons the _kannushi_ , fluttering his eyelashes fetchingly as Kurogane-dono snaps out the parasol and swings it over him, a circle of shadow against the afternoon sunlight glowing across the castle grounds.

“Idiots can’t catch colds,” is Kurogane-dono’s blunt rebuttal, and Fai-dono’s laughing cry is one-part delight to two-parts mock offense as he lets himself be swept back onto the path by the guiding arm that sways around his waist, tossing a wink over his shoulder as Jin follows at a demure distance two steps behind them.

Gingko leaves dance across the lip of the parasol as they walk, the cheer of the crowd a humming tide that swells between Fai-dono’s chattering and the _clack_ of two sets of _geta_ as the Lord and his Consort walk through the festival, accepting the delighted greetings that are their due, and Jin finds herself drifting contentedly along behind them as the afternoon passes dreamily by. There is no pretence her presence as a guard is anything like needed, not as the _daimyo_ walks among his people, but she takes pleasure in the task all the same; it is easy to walk quietly and watch with a smile as Fai-dono becomes delighted and distractable, flitting from stall to stall to indulge in the feast of colourful wares and delicious treats on display like the _komadori_ chirping in the trees overhead. Even Kurogane-dono, notorious denier of any kind of sweet-tooth (much to his husband’s teasing amusement) accepts a bite or two of _anko-dango_ as offered by a grinning Fai-dono as they amble through the festival.

It is the best and easiest day Jin has ever served in Kurogane-dono’s service, and she is more than glad to be savouring it as the afternoon fades slowly to twilight.

“Oh – I knew I should have bought more _dango_ ,” says Fai-dono, and despite the pout he sounds only slightly mournful as he twirls the tacky stick between his fingers. “Especially since Kuro-snack has eaten all of mine!”

“Who’s eating _whose_ snacks here?” mutters the _daimyo_ in retort, guarding jealously his small paper satchel of roast chestnuts as his husband – light-fingered as well as quick-witted – tries to snatch a handful. “Get your own, you thief!” Even Jin cannot hide a giggle at that, especially since Fai-dono shows himself to be as stealthy as any _shinobi_ worth their salt, pilfering three from their paper with barely a rustle. _“Hey!”_

“Nakamura-san, protect me!” laughs the _kannushi_ , ducking out of the way of Kurogane-dono’s grumbling. He laughs with his head thrown back, loud and joyous, and Jin catches the eye of a dumbstruck onlooker as they pass a stall selling patterned silk clutches and purses. Blue eyes glitter like the sunlight spangling off the _kanzashi_ laid out across the stall in shining rows, and even _Kurogane-dono_ smiles then, the curve of his lips and the obvious affection that softens his stern and handsome face enough to make one particularly flustered fellow walk straight into the side of a verandah post.

“Haven’t you had enough today?” Kurogane-dono’s grumbling is of a man half his age, though Jin must admit in fairness he does not look anywhere near his age at all. “How do you expect to eat dinner if you’re just stuffing yourself with snacks all day long?”

“Kuro-sama should know I _always_ have an appetite,” says Fai-dono with a gleam in his eye, and the lilting purr to his throaty words is _far_ too much for so early in the evening. Even worse is that Kurogane-dono leans in close to murmur something softly suggestive in return, something to make his husband blush, and Jin herself _has_ to look away as her face flushes in embarrassed kind. Shameless, the _both_ of them!

Mercifully – at least for Jin’s sake, if not an unabashed Kurogane-dono – the _kannushi_ is apparently speechless in response to his husband’s unexpected riposte, and so they amble onwards as the lanterns are lit, and when the first true shadow of nightfall draws down the sun to her bed on the horizon, it becomes clear they are both making their way towards the main stage built before the castle shrine.

There is a performance tonight, a spectacle for the crowds and the _daimyo_ both, offered up as tribute by an acting troupe that came calling from the capital of Shirasagi as part of the celebrations. All day long Jin has seen the players and their stagehands at their work – darting to-and-fro across the castle grounds with the youth of the keep staff conscripted into cheerful service – and it’s hard to deny she’s not looking forward to it… especially since her seat as the _daimyo_ ’s guard is at the base of the pavilion raised for Kurogane-dono and his husband, and will surely have a view second only to that of the Lord himself.

“Ah, do you think that is supposed to be Shirasagi?” As close as they are now, the set upon the stage can be clearly seen – Fai-dono is up on his toes, wobbling a little in his _geta_ as he cranes his neck to see over the thronging crowd lining the theatre grounds below the main platform. It says something that he even has to strain to see, considering he is at least a head taller than almost everyone in Suwa. (Almost, that is; the obvious exception being his husband.) “I _think_ – yes, that’s _definitely_ the silhouette of the _tenshu_ when seen from the inner courtyard.”

Jin wouldn’t know – her time as a city guard never included any shifts at the imperial palace – but apparently Kurogane-dono agrees with his husband’s assessment, _hm_ ing thoughtfully as he closes the parasol and hands it back to Jin once more. “They did say they wanted to do something based on my time in Tomoyo-hime’s guard.”

The beautifully painted backdrop emblazoned upon the stage as the skyline of Shirasagi at night comes into focus as they draw closer – shadowed buildings rising in spires with familiar arching rooves, and the moon a crescent sliver that glows under the bright lanterns lit near the edges of the stage. From here, Jin can just barely see the clever set-up of bronze mirrors used to bounce the warm light back from the wings and to the centre of the performing space, glowing on polished wood and the sharp drop that separates the apron of the stage from the audience. Clever set-pieces, painted to look like stone and wood, frame the wide empty space with layers of terracotta tiles and carved stone ornaments: to look at the stage now is to look upon a castle rooftop, a place for assassins and _shinobi_ to battle under the moonlight with the lives of the imperial seat the driving force of such a clash.

Jin is a grown woman, an experienced soldier, and most certainly _not_ an excitable child easily swayed by the rumours of Kurogane-dono’s legendary exploits. It is her absolute professionalism that keeps her mouth firmly shut and her simmering anticipation well concealed. The acting troupe had come on recommendation from the regulatory board of imperial arts; there was no doubt they were the best in their field. _And_ they’d had to petition with Kurogane-dono himself for permission to perform the play apparently written about him as he had been in his youth. Tonight’s engagement will be a legend of its own kind, that is for sure!

Fai-dono grins, clattering eagerly up the steps that lead to the shaded pavilion in the centre of the audience. “Kuro-sama! Who would have ever thought you’d be the main character in a play? I’ll have to sponsor this group to tour the province if they’re any good.” Half-way up the _kannushi_ pauses at the railing, grinning down at his husband with an expression that Jin can only call mischievous. “We’ll have to make sure the performance is _perfectly accurate_ – it wouldn’t do to have everyone thinking you’re a violent brute, now.”

Muttering something to the effect of _who’s a violent brute?_ which Jin tactfully ignores, Kurogane-dono follows his husband up the stairs and above the swell of the crowd. “Nakamura, take your seat. No need to attend us.” Jin bows quickly, ducking her head to hide the threat of a smile twitching at her mouth. Kurogane-dono prefers to pour his husband’s drinks on his own, choosing to wait upon Fai-dono like a young man courting despite being married to him for well over a decade, and Jin has no wish to intrude on such a private moment between the Lord and his Consort.

Jin maintains her position at the foot of the stairs, taking her seat alongside other dignitaries – the greatest amongst the endless stream of visiting guests to Suwa, and the noble names sent to bring tribute to the rising fame of the great Kurogane-dono, most notable of the _Mikado_ ’s many vassal lords. Some are here to argue for trade privileges, the famous medicine Suwa province is known for their coveted prize; others still are seeking to make a name for themselves as an ally of the newest power in the region. It is, muses Jin, something of a relief that the attempts by several of the more _incautious_ of the upper classes to offer up a beautiful young bride or handsomely charming groom as a concubine or paramour have long ceased; Fai-dono, while of generally easy disposition, is still possessed of a temper – as any lover would be, at the threat of such ignoble usurpation.

As pretty as his looks and as gentle as his mannerisms are, there are literal claws sheathed beneath those silken sleeves, and the more distance grows between his face as the sweetly charming consort and his face as the terrifyingly powerful warrior the more frightening it is to catch a glimpse of it gleaming deadly beneath soft, pale lashes. It is difficult enough to reconcile the spectre of firmly leashed ferocity with his lovely appearance in battle, let alone the more subtle war that is his presence in Kurogane-dono’s court; but then, those foolish few that would contest a _kitsune_ for their lover’s favour are well-deserving of any fate they meet. Jin much prefers the straightforward violence of the demon scourge that surges forward across Suwa’s borders to the poisonous words said so sweetly to those who dare to challenge Fai-dono’s position as head of the _daimyo_ ’s household.

There are only so many times one can bear to watch Fai-dono strip the proverbial flesh from their bones with such caustic ease, after all.

The stirring sound of the drummers draws Jin from her idle thoughts, and the cheering from the crowd that surges in its wake raises an excitement that prickles the fine hair at the nape of her neck. On the stage the torches are lit, the shadows of the actors moving behind the set a teasing prelude to their much-anticipated performance, and as unseemly as it is, she cannot help but find herself leaning forwards in her repose, eager to catch a glimpse of the first player to set foot upon the boards.

She is not alone in her eagerness, nor the only one craning forward; even the portly and pompous delegate from the eastern provinces who had argued that he should be given a discount on Suwa’s bountiful trade goods due to the distance he’d had to travel across the mountains to reach the province is sweating more in excitement than overindulgence in his drinking for once. Captivated by the swelling sounds of the drums, it is easy for a moment to forget her place here as her Lord’s attendant; Jin feels as though for a moment she is a young girl once more, caught up in her mother’s stories of the great and powerful Lord of Suwa and his tragic downfall. And when at last the first player steps out upon the stage to take her place in the lights dancing upon the boards, the layers of her lavish _furisode_ a vision in twilight silk and silvered embroidery, Jin feels her breath catch at the beauty of her arraignment and the power of her voice, calling one and all to witness the legendary exploits of Kurogane-dono in his youth, the greatest of all the guards the _Tsukiyomi_ relied upon as a young and vulnerable princess targeted endlessly by the foulest of assassins.

It is easy to lose herself in awe, easy to cry out and clap and hiss with the crowd milling before the stage, one voice among many as the silhouette of Shirasagi Castle becomes the stage for a wave of _shinobi_ breaking over the rooves; and when the actor in the role of Kurogane-dono himself steps out on across the boards – a handsome young woman whose fierce features and cunning makeup give her stunning resemblance to the man in question, and whose clever costuming (including the tactful use of heighted heels and soles for her boots) makes up for what she lacks in stature – the roar of the audience is a tide of approval crashing against the stage’s shore.

The dramatized portrayal of what must have been one of many nightly battles for the safety of the _Tsukuyomi_ is thrilling in its execution; blades flash and clash in brilliant choreography and red ribbons splash across the floorboards as a creative substitute for the resulting gore, and when the Kurogane-dono on stage takes a cocky stance atop the dragon-head roof-piece that adorns the far edge of Shirasagi’s rooftops, hand on hip and head thrown back in a roaring, arrogant laugh, Jin cannot help the grin that splits her face in delight. Fai-dono has always maintained that Kurogane-dono was something of a wild thing in his youth; something that Jin could never quite reconcile with the stern face of her _daimyo_ at his paperwork, or the terribly efficient swordsman in combat – here, Kurogane-dono crows in triumph as his foes are threshed like rice at the harvest, every steel-simmering slash of that dancing blade leaving bodies to fall as grains before the _senbakoki_ , and the vicious joy on the face of the player is a youthful echo of the dark grin Jin has seen glances of upon the battlefield.

And true to Fai-dono’s teasing words, this Kurogane-dono is neither measured nor controlled: the cruelty of his triumph something lorded over his foes, the conceit of a man sure of his skill and superiority. It is worlds away from the solemn and noble Lord Jin serves as captain of the castle guard, but undeniably captivating all the same – this is Kurogane-dono as he was before his journey, before the great adventure that would change his life, before he met the foreign prince who would become the greatest love he will ever know.

Jin watches and Jin laughs, and Jin even _ooh_ s in appreciative chagrin as the _Tsukuyomi_ herself appears once more to lament the deplorable violence enacted in her name, the chime of her belled headpiece a beautiful admonishment as she mourns the blood shed in red ribbons across Shirasagi’s rooftop; and when the princess casts her faithful retainer from her court with a magical geas to find his purpose, Jin cannot help the gasp that escapes at the glittering sparks that cascade from the ends of the princess’ fan, a shower of magic that enforces her will. The logical part of Jin knows this to be stagecraft and trickery, but the child that sat at her mother’s knee and marvelled at the legend of Suwa as it once was is hungry for any scrap of wonder given.

“ _Go then!_ ” cries the _Tsukuyomi_ , and the actor portraying Kurogane-dono staggers across the stage as though wounded, the fierce cast of those proud features hurtful and unsure, the red makeup that lines dark eyes shimmering beneath the torchlight. “ _Begone from my service until thou hast learnt the true meaning of honour!”_ Once more she flourishes her fan in a shower of glittering sparks, and the princess lifts her head with tearful eyes as her retainer falls to his knees, clutching his chest in a pantomime of a mortal blow. “ _Thou art no longer the noble son who mourns thy mother and thy father – thou art a beast who hast forgotten the land which thou lost! Though it pains me, thou art banished from my sight until thou can claimst to know the true heart of thyself once more!_ ”

Somewhere behind and above the enthralled silence of the crowd Fai-dono snorts inelegantly, the sound quickly muffled by a rasp of silk and the annoyed grumble of his husband; Jin must fight to repress the smile that twitches at her mouth, even as the drama unfolding before her eyes draws her in once more.

“ _Tsukuyomi-hime!_ ” cries the Kurogane-dono upon the stage, staggered to one knee, but his princess remains unmoved – again her fan flutters, and again he cries out beneath the blow.

His liegelady is merciless in her commands, a tiny figure towering over the warrior at her government. “ _Begone! Thou must journey beyond the sea, to find a princess in mortal peril! Whilst thou art in her service, thou art to aid and guard her, to be the sword that strikes in defence against her enemies!_ ” Her fan closes with a snap as her hand raises, tracing with the sweep of her delicate fingers and the swing of her draping sleeve a symbol meant to seal her words to the fate of the man bowed before her. “ _This geas I lay upon thee:_ _until thou has restored thy own honour,_ _thou shalt not strike a mortal blow – no blood shall thou shed but that of thou own!”_

The rumble of the drums and the crash of cymbals punctuates her impassioned words, and bright light swings upon the figures onstage as the stagehands move quickly with polished bronze mirrors, casting their shadows long against Shirasagi’s painted silhouette. Jin leans forward on her knees, spellbound.

“ _I will return!_ ” snarls the Kurogane-dono kneeling at his princess’ feet, surging upright with a vicious snap of his tattered cloak. Light spangles off the red and black lacquer of his armour, and the ferociousness of his expression drives him forward to face the audience, the pounding of each step echoed by the hammering drums. “ _If it is my honour which thou claimst that I have forgotten, then my honour I will find!”_ He turns and leaps across the stage, a snapping surge of movement punctuated by the drumbeat rising to a tempest. Kurogane-dono alights upon the dragon’s head once more, gesturing over the crowd with a sweep of Ginryuu’s blade as his cloak whips out behind him; the length of the sword points squarely at the Lord whose past he demonstrates as surely as the stone head of the dragon he stands upon, and both their gazes are steely and hot as they find Kurogane-dono seated at his pavilion and stare him down.

“ _I will not be cast aside!_ _Tsukuyomi-hime, thou will know my vow: I will return!_ ”

The awestruck silence of the crowd in the echo of that ringing cry is no warning at all for the sudden fire-crack **_BTOOM-!!_** of a cannon firing.

Dark and stormy fumes explode out across the stage in dense spirals, metal screaming and the hot white flash of black-powder burning, and at first Jin cannot understand what it is she sees through the horror and the smoke: but the dragon-head stage piece has exploded and from its smouldering mouth issues flames as it fires in cracking retort, the mouth of its barrel aimed squarely at her _daimyo_ ’s pavilion – and the whistling shriek of projectiles fired draws a shout to her lips as the crowd screams in shock. Jin turns back towards her _daimyo_ , already too late to stop the tragedy about to unfold –

– but then a flutter of silk bursts across her field of vision – long sleeves, bannered and billowing with the speed of sudden movement – as the first bolt strikes: and into the breast of Fai-dono barbed steel sinks with a sound of metal punching through meat, bursting through the back of his body like the blade of a sword stabbed deep as he throws himself before his husband, his very body Kurogane-dono’s shield.

The blood comes next: a spray and splatter, and there are no ribbons here as it splurts wet and red onto the cushioning of the pavilion, and the screeching spark of _something_ shearing through the second bolt as the cannon fires again shrieks across the screams of the crowd and scatters sparks against polished wood. The third bolt fired suffers the same fate, cut cleanly through as Fai-dono sweeps one hand in a movement so fast it blisters tears to the eye; the exploding retort of the fourth bolt fires peals through Jin’s ears as it dances off the edge of clawed fingertips, sent spiralling down to crunch into the pavilion’s wooden decking and left smoking where it lands.

The fifth bolt, Fai-dono cannot quite catch – cast off-course it hits not the _kannushi_ ’s chest but his shoulder, pinioned shallowly at the joint with another spurt of blood that soaks quickly through the layers of his _kimono_. The sixth bolt whistles clean past him, shot through the gap between shoulder and neck, and this one meets its end in the fearsome grip of Kurogane-dono himself, metal screaming as it bends beneath the sheer force from which it is snatched out of the air. Kurogane-dono’s hand does not bleed, is not cut or torn – the enchanted skin of his left palm left unbruised as the wicked barbs that line the bolt are crushed between his fingers. His hand opens, and the length of it drops to the ground, bent beyond all recognition: a twisted scrap of metal still smouldering from the speed from which it was shot.

The cannon falls still, but the screams of the crowd reach their terrified pitch, and Jin staggers to her feet with aching ears and a sinking dread. The silence rings louder than her pulse as she clambers around the side of the pavilion, and she looks on stunned at the tableau before her: Kurogane-dono crouching low and his husband standing before him with arms spread wide. Kurogane-dono is unharmed – _Kurogane-dono is unharmed_ , and Fai-dono wavers in his protective stance, a little unsteady on his feet. Blood patters down like rain as he sways, left arm swinging slack and useless at his side. But he is not down, he is not _dead_ : not as a man who has taken a bolt through the heart should be, not as any man but he surely _would be_ , and the flutter of one long-clawed hand across his chest wraps thin fingers around the shaft protruding from his chest to hold it steady as a snarl rumbles through the air, rising like heat cast from a fire stoking to a blaze.

The sneer of his mouth bares sharp teeth, bloodied as he spits aside a clotting mouthful of gore – it _splacht_ s against the floorboards, smeared beneath the toes of his tabi as Fai-dono (as the beast in that beautiful skin) steps forward, and the first and only chill that bolts down Jin’s spine is terror enough to stop her heart.

“If you mean to kill my husband, you had best hope to kill me first.” It’s a bubbling and bloody snarl, a _warning_ , a lit fuse burning quickly to its explosive end. “And it will take more than merely _this_ to kill _me!_ ”

Blood slicks his chin and pale fingers tighten in their grip, wet with oozing red; metal snaps with a sharp and cutting _chk!_ and in Fai-dono’s hand one half of the bolt comes free, cast aside with a careless flick of the wrist. It bounces across polished wood with a ringing clatter, and those bloody fingers flick wide, dark droplets scattering beneath the force of the gesture.

Strange characters of no language Jin can recognise bloom in spinning circles and twisting lines, writ sparking in blue and gold as dancing bolts of light that rip through the air like fresh-forged steel through wet silk. Thunderlight crackles and the smell of raw magic bursts across the pavilion like the scent of dry earth before rain, like the hiss of a hot sword plunged into a water barrel, like the taste of a bloody cut dragged across the tongue – and before Jin can even hope to focus her eyes fire streaks around the wrists and ankles of every actor on the stage, locking them into place as shimmering _kekkai_ yawn open beneath their frozen feet.

A wordless sound of anger comes snarling through bloody teeth, Fai-dono’s hand rising sharp and savage in a strike – and _lightning_ , blue and terrible, burns from his palm in a bolting flash that soars across the gap between pavilion and stage to crash into the dragon-head cannon and set it scorching with a burst of white fire. It burns like nothing Jin has ever known: with no heat, no sound, metal crumpling like paper as it blazes into smokeless scrap. Molten slag drips between the wooden boards but does not catch alight, the fury of the _kannushi_ ’s magic smelting the weapon turned towards his husband into smouldering nothingness. It takes only seconds, and leaves all else untouched, and the wet of Jin’s mouth turns sour as she gasps for breath in the wake of such power.

Jin does not move, her feet held treacherously still by the nameless fear of how close her Lord came to his death, but between her next breaths the cold lump of it coalesces in her belly and gives sluggish life to her trembling limbs as she stumbles to the pavilion’s stairs.

“Take them alive,” says her _daimyo_. His voice is low and dark, as heavy as the executioner’s blade, and it carries like a thunderclap across the shock of the moment: cracking it open into sound and motion once more.

There is no mercy in the words, no mercy in the fate that awaits the players on the stage – and Jin’s legs goad her to greater speed under the force of that command, moving without consulting anything like thought as her mouth opens and her orders come barking out. “Capture the assassins – don’t let them escape!”

The crowd is still screaming, a sound of shock and horror coming on the tails of such violence, and from the mass of people pour forth the castle guards. One and all their faces are grim with anger, and more than one pair of eyes glistens wet with tears as they surge upwards towards the stage. Their people love their Lord and his husband – to see them both targeted in such a brazen act of terror is beyond anything any one of them could bear.

No one blocks her way, fleeing from her path as she reaches the platform, and when she can finally lift her gaze beyond her clumsy feet, it is to see Kurogane-dono reaching for his husband with hands that the gods could not dare to shake.

“Clear the crowd – the castle grounds must be protected!” Several guards peel from the flock at the stage’s edges, and begin to make their way across the courtyard; despite the anger simmering in the voices of the crowd, they begin to disperse in groups and pairs, but there are too many people to move quickly – too many witnesses to an assassination attempt that, had it been successful, would have devastated them all.

(Not for the first time, and not for the last, is Jin grateful for the man her _daimyo_ calls husband.)

There is no gentleness in how the acting troupe is seized – the backdrop comes clattering down in the chaos of the siege, stagehands dragged through its torn canvas as Kurogane-dono’s guards pour across the stage. The actor who played Kurogane-dono is hauled away from the ruins of the cannon with bloody face and torn clothes, and the high-pitched _shrrip-!_ of silk tearing floats across the air as the false _Tsukuyomi_ is seized ungently, her layers of finery shredding in the impatient grip of the _daimyo_ ’s guards. But Jin cannot care for the fate of the wretched assassins in their captivity, not as she stares at the figures standing on the pavilion, and her heart squeezes in dread as Fai-dono speaks with a thin and breathless sigh.

“Kuro-sama,” says Fai-dono, the wheeze to the edge of his voice a whistling warning: the bolt has pierced his lung. “It’s in too deep. I’m going to have to push it through.” Blood bubbles wetly at the breast of his kimono, staining silk dark and Fai-dono’s very breath hissing through the hole pierced through his chest.

Behind him, the _daimyo_ stands dark and still: a shadow looming tall that moves only at those soft words, stepping forward soundlessly to curl a broad, strong hand against the slope of one shoulder. At first, Jin does not understand – but then that hand tightens in its grip, a brace pressing hard as Fai-dono curls his fist about the jutting spear of the shaft still embedded in his breast–

–and pushes it back and back and further _through_ , the sickening _schlup! schlup! schlup!_ of each barb tugging free from flesh ringing wet and loud across the silence that falls across the stunned crowd.

The head of the bolt – long and sharp and tapering to a point – is already half-way out from the sheer force from which it sunk into flesh, but the rest of it comes clean through layers of silk as each inch punches out Fai-dono’s back, and when the _daimyo_ ’s hand takes a hold of it, someone in the distance cries out in a horror Jin feels in her bones.

No man could survive this!

(But then, has not Fai-dono shown himself to be so much more than merely a man?)

With one hand Kurogane-dono pulls, and metal must yield: out it comes, in a long and bloody slide that spurts a fresh wave of blood to splatter at their feet, soaking quickly into the polished wood of the pavilion and the cotton of their _tabi_. Fai-dono does not cry out – does little more than grunt through gritted teeth, and this close to him Jin can see the sweat standing out on the pale of his skin. But his eyes – oh, they are _golden_ , slitted and burning in a way no mortal eyes can, and Jin knows that just as Fai-dono himself declared _this_ above all else was the fatal mistake made by those who tried to kill the _daimyo_ : they did not kill his husband first.

Fai-dono spits up another mouthful of blood to splatter at his feet, dragging one arm upright to wipe his chin and gesture at his other shoulder. “This one’s only shallow – just give it a pull for me, please.”

 _Please_ , he says, as if this were a simple favour any man might ask his husband; but Fai-dono’s husband obeys him with a solemn air all the same. The barbs that stud its length are nothing to the blessed skin of Kurogane-dono’s palm and the hand that snatched a shot from the air mid-flight wraps around the bolt that juts from the _kannushi_ ’s shoulder, yanking it out with a sharp and brutal tug. It too is cast aside thoughtlessly, and now Kurogane-dono’s arms wrap around Fai-dono’s chest, one palm each pressed to exit and entry wounds, holding his husband steady and close without care for the blood smeared between them.

“Call for a healer!” shouts Jin, feeling more than useless – and the answering shout across the courtyard says her orders are heard, for all the good they may be.

“Nakamura-san,” says Fai-dono – whistles Fai-dono, the edge of his voice thin and rasping on the rattle that hisses from his wounds, blood bubbling up around his husband’s splayed fingers. His head lolls towards her, the crease of his brow and the lidding of his eyes the only signs of the pain that wracks his body. “We need to interrogate the players. If there are spies in the castle, they will try again.”

“They won’t if they know what’s good for them,” growls Kurogane-dono.

The cool edge of his anger strengthens the steel in Jin’s spine. “Yes, _kannushi_ -sama.” The player troupe may have been neutralised, but this was no trick of the moment; something like this, with a weapon so complex and a cover so complete, could have only been the work of months – if not _years_ – of planning. The actors upon the stage must be separated from one another and pressed for details, and most importantly they must be quickly searched and restrained to ensure none may take their own lives to protect the master behind their scheming.

“Nakamura.” Jin pauses mid-bow, looking up at her _daimyo_. “The one that played the _Tsukuyomi_ – she’s the leader. I will speak with her myself.”

“Yes, _daimyo_ -sama.” Jin says nothing else to the murderous look in those famous red eyes, and is even a little glad for it: as much as their Lord is just and fair and surprisingly kind, his bloody reputation is not unearned. The threat to the sanctity of his rule – the threat to _Fai-dono_ – will not be left unanswered.

Fai-dono, bloodied and swaying and entirely unaware of Jin’s thoughts, closes his eyes; the press of Kurogane-dono’s hands must surely be the only thing keeping him upright.

The moment Kurogane-dono realises this is last moment of stillness before sudden movement. Silk rustles, and the bloody floorboards beneath their feet creak as he sweeps his husband into his hold as one might carry a princess, the gory drape of bloodstained _kimono_ and the _kannushi_ ’s long legs both spilling over his arms as Fai-dono is held up and close to Kurogane-dono’s chest. A careful shift of the angle of his arms and that fair head tips sideways, meeting the slope of Kurogane-dono’s shoulder in a move that must be well-practiced, if only for how easily Fai-dono sighs into a slump, the rigid agony of his tense body melting into something soft and pained as he is cradled gently.

Gold eyes are still burning when they flutter closed, but they close nonetheless.

“A healer?” says Kurogane-dono. It is not much of a question, with the thunder in his expression rumbling low and dark.

“On their way, _daimyo_ -sama.”

Gods, but Jin hopes so. Whatever fierceness it was that kept Fai-dono upright after such violence seems to be leaking away now, in much the way a soldier may weaken after the first flush of battle is won: his face is pale, his breathing raspy, and the thin hand Kurogane-dono lifts to press against Fai-dono’s own chest trembles a little where it is pushed against the worst of his wounds, his clawed fingers oozing with the blood that leaks between them.

“Clear a path – I want a report later.”

Jin calls out for the guards as her _daimyo_ takes the stairs – moving with terrible care so not to jostle the man in his arms – and several of their people move to flank him even as a dozen more stay on the stage with the players frozen still in the grip of Fai-dono’s fierce magic. As Fai-dono passes by, still and pale and with eyes trembling open to bare golden slits, he raises his free hand drowsily to summon sparks from his fingertips: the _kekkai_ swirling at the feet of the troupe imprisoned on the stage flicker out at once like lanterns extinguished, and so too dies the force holding them immobile. Jin notes with some satisfaction that as one and all tumble to their knees as the magic cuts away, none of her guards are anything like gentle as they haul them upright.

Kurogane-dono has not died this night. Kurogane-dono remains unharmed, and his fury will break upon the assassins sent to slay him like dawn falls upon the executioner’s grounds. There is no triumph in the thought – not with the _kannushi_ so gravely wounded – but Jin knows in truth that Fai-dono only acted as he knew he must; as Jin knows he would act again and again if needed, throwing himself in the path of his husband’s death and damn the cost to his own life. It is a cold comfort, but a strong one, and Jin follows in her daimyo’s sweeping wake with the certainty that Fai-dono is not alone – there is not a living soul in Suwa who would not take a mortal blow for the Lord that protects them all.

* * *

A new day finds Suwa Castle in deep and mournful quiet, and Mariko is also of a mournful mind as she ascends the winding halls to reach her _daimyo_ ’s private quarters.

She takes her time – she is not so youthful as she once was – and she makes no effort to quiet her approach as the nightingale floors sing with every step tread upon the boards; an obvious warning of her approach to the Lord who even now paces like a dragon unleashed in the wake of his husband’s grave and terrible injury. The _shoji_ open before she can reach them, and the _daimyo_ ’s shadow falls dark and terrible upon the doorway as he stands with heavy gaze and burning eyes. It is a disquieting sight, no matter how handsome his features: the look in red eyes is that of a man who has seen his home burn, who sees now his love wounded and all for the name he bears as the son of his father.

“ _Daimyo_ -sama.” Mariko bows her head, but briefly; Kurogane-dono has little patience for the obeisance that is his due at the best of times, and to force formality upon him now would be both foolish and cruel.

He steps aside without a word, and Mariko bustles briskly past, careful with the tray in her hands. The _daimyo_ ’s rooms are quiet, still and muted – absent the bright signs of life Fai-dono visits upon their shared quarters, and all the more chilled in their lack.

“Why are you here?”

Kurogane-dono’s voice is quiet, almost gentle in the early light of dawn that seeps soft through the high windows. Feathered shadows fall like dove wings, pooling soft and grey in the corners of the room, and beyond the cool cove of the open _shoji_ Mariko sees the glow of a single lantern lit beside the futon. Beneath the heaps of thick quilted covers, a man lies sleeping: the stillness of his form only a breath from the most final stillness of all, and the rise of his chest shallow still.

The soft _clack_ of wooden tray on wooden table is almost too loud for such stillness. “Breakfast, for the _kannushi_ -sama.” Tea and congee with a light broth, thickened with barley and made with vegetable stock, as per the _kannushi_ ’s preferences; everyone in the castle knows Fai-dono cannot stand the taste of fish. The teapot is set atop a small brazier, to keep warm along with the bowl nestled beside it – and beside that are yet more bandages and salve as taken from the doctor, and a _tanto_ in its sheath. The blade, though small, is kept wickedly sharp.

Kurogane-dono’s voice is quiet, but it may as well be thunder in the silence that falls before it. “I gave word to the servants that we were not to be disturbed.”

“I am a servant to the _kannushi_ -sama first,” says Mariko. To any other Lord the words would be treason, but here they are only honesty, and fearless honesty at that. Kurogane-dono meets her with a glare that could etch glass – but in his face there is no anger, only a fear left to simmer over slow burning coals. “With your pardon, _daimyo_ -sama.”

Kurogane-dono’s gaze does not lift from Mariko, and the weight of his regard falls upon her like snow, gathering heavier with every passing moment. “Hn. Do not wake him.”

Mariko does not waste more time with bowing. She takes up the tray, and moves briskly through the open _shoji_. Kurogane-dono follows behind like an impatient shadow, each step moving in silent tread, and when Mariko takes her place kneeling beside the futon it is no surprise to catch him settling down beside her. His gaze is heavy on the man that lies abed, and not once does he look away from Fai-dono’s fair and lovely face. “Did he wake through the night?”

Kurogane-dono takes the tray from her with no prompting, setting it down in the space between them. “Once, for a few minutes.”

The covers of the futon are crisp and spotless, snapping back neatly in Mariko’s grip. Heat rises from the body that lies sleeping, but it is only the warmth of sleep and not the dangerous heat of fever beneath Mariko’s hands. The folds of the thin yukata come loose where they lie across Fai-dono’s bandaged chest, and she lays her hand flat across his breast to feel the rise and fall of each drawn breath. There is no blood or other fluid seeping through fine linen – a very good sign. The doctor called to the castle had worked in tandem with the _miko_ who leant their aid and magic, and the steady rhythm beneath her palm is the stronger for it. “His breathing has been steady?”

“Yes. It was thinner when he first laid down, but it evened out soon after.”

Not surprising it had been strained - the bolt _had_ pierced his lung and been pushed clean through, by Nakamura-san’s account. Mariko had been too far from the stage to see the chaos as the cannon fired, but the captain of the guard had witnessed it all unfolding. Still, if anyone else had taken such a grievous wound they could not hope to be breathing so easily, if at all. “No coughing?” Gently, carefully, Mariko nudges back the _kannushi_ ’s top lip: his gums are pink and not at all bloody, and his nose scrunches just a little at the touch. His eyelashes flutter as she peels back one lid; his pupil shrinks quickly against the light, and there are no veins burst or bloody tears lining the rim of his eyelids. Mariko lifts her fingertips gently and Fai-dono’s eye closes again, and it is only moments before both eyes are moving slightly beneath their closed lids once more.

Kurogane-dono’s grip tightens on the fabric of his hakama, stained still with the blood from his husband’s wounding. “No.”

“Good.” Two fingers hook beneath the soft underside of Fai-dono’s chin, and the pulse beneath her fingertips is a little fast, but still acceptable – a heart beating quick in a body repairing itself just as quickly. His face is pale, the sockets of his eyes a little bruised from injury, but the sweat on his skin is clean: Mariko detects no fever-sweet smell or the bitter cloying scent of wounds soured. There will be no need for prayers, here, for all that her fellow _miko_ have said theirs tonight: Fai-dono will see this day dawning, and many more after.

Mariko eases back from the bedside, settling into a comfortable kneel. “Have you eaten?” A foolish question, perhaps; Kurogane-dono has not left his husband’s side since he took him from the care of the doctor and his attendants to remove Fai-dono to his bed, and has seen no one in his quarters but the captain of the guard for her report. True to her assumption, her Lord shakes his head. “Very well,” says Mariko. “But you will need to shortly after. Roll up your sleeve.”

Red eyes – the same red eyes as his father before him – cut across her face. Mariko does not try to hold them, but she does not quail before them either. There are very few who would dare to speak to Kurogane-dono so boldly, and ten years before now Mariko would not have counted herself one, but ten years can change many things.

Kurogane-dono speaks not a word, but his gaze does not leave her, even as his hand slides to his sleeve to fold it back, baring the strong lines of his right wrist and forearm to the lanternlight.

There are scars, here: faint, fine lines scored neatly by the thin edge of a _very_ sharp blade. Each scar is small and very old, long healed as barely a memory of a cut once made – but they are sign enough of what Fai-dono needs most if he is to recover completely. It is only when Mariko takes up the _tanto_ that her _daimyo_ turns away at all.

Kurogane-dono does not flinch beneath the edge of the blade, and Mariko does not expect him to; he does not even look as she makes the cut, his gaze steady on his husband’s sleeping face. Blood wells up immediately, slipping down his wrist, and Kurogane-dono’s hand becomes a cup as it pours down to pool into his palm. To Mariko, the smell is wet iron; to Fai-dono it must be something else entirely, as his lips part and his chest swells with a breath taken deep and hungrily. His mouth opens, a sound almost like a whine edging past his teeth, and quite suddenly his eyes are open too: wide and sightless, golden and glowing as dark pupils slit thin swell to lunar fullness in the gloom.

“Ha– _ah_ –!”

It’s more breath than sound, barely anything else but a wordless cry of need, and Fai-dono lurches upright to grab at his husband’s arm with the greed of predator pouncing on prey. Mariko cannot say if he wakes in truth, his eyes open to mere slits and utterly blank of anything like reason as he lunges forward. Mindless and desperate, Fai-dono bows down to the hand Kurogane-dono offers him like a beast at the trough, shaking with something Mariko knows is pure and simple need as his lips find the _daimyo_ ’s bloodied fingers. His tongue laves at dark skin speckled red, and when the first wet smear of blood touches his mouth the slits of those golden eyes flutter closed with a low and hungry groan.

It should be disturbing, and perhaps in some way it is – but Mariko feels nothing close to fear as Fai-dono clasps both hands about the thickness of his husband’s wrist, lifting it to his mouth and bending down to drink with eager urgency from the blood pooling slowly in Kurogane-dono’s palm. If the _kannushi_ truly is a _youkai_ as many years of rumours proclaim him to be, then _of course_ he needs blood; blood to replace that which he shed in the name of his love, the same love that drove him to leap before the blow that could have killed his beloved this night just passed.

(She did not know, before; not at first meeting, and not for a long time after. But the signs were there for the reading, if only one knew what they meant: the bird-like appetite, the unageing beauty of his face, the fey wildness of his grace, the _power_ in every part of him. The fire in his eyes, as strange and lovely as they were. The sharpness of his smile, in both tooth and temperament, and the loving bites that could be glimpsed beneath the shadow of the _daimyo_ ’s collar if one were very observant.

 _Kitsune_ , he is called by the shrewd ones, and certainly there is something of a fox in him: clever and sly and so very devoted to his lover, a master of magic and tricks whose courtly mien hides the bones of something beastly, dwelling far beneath the beautiful surface. It doesn’t _quite_ match with what Mariko knows of _youkai_ , and who can say if the far and distant country that Fai-dono hails from even has fox-spirits at all. But fox or man or something else entirely, he is the _kannushi_ , the Consort to her Lord, and as long as he serves his husband and his people, it matters not at all what manner of soul it is that burns behind blue – and sometimes gold – eyes.)

“You’re not afraid,” says Kurogane-dono calmly. His fingers curl gently against his husband’s face, holding it softly as Fai-dono laps at his palm, tracing up the trickle of blood that flows from his wrist and humming in thoughtless throaty pleasure as he does so.

“What is there to fear?” says Mariko plainly. “He is the _kannushi_ -sama, the man I serve as your Lord-Consort. I have served him for ten years, and gods willing, I will serve him ten and ten and ten years more.”

What if he is _youkai_ , _kitsune_ – what of it? Kurogane-dono claims the blood of a dragon-god in his ancestry, and not so many centuries ago the Sun Goddess Herself, Divine Amaterasu, began with her children the bloodline of the Imperial Seat – the _Mikado_ now beautiful and terrible in her likeness to the Sun’s own glory. _Kannushi_ or _kitsune_ or man; it matters not. Fai-dono loves his husband, loves his _people_ , and there will never be another like him as long as the province of Suwa stands. “Whatever the _kannushi_ -sama asks I will give; however I may serve him, I will.”

Kurogane-dono is silent, but the curl of broad shoulders steadies beneath his _haori_ , his face smoothing to something like calm as he watches Mariko. The spill of his husband’s hair tumbles golden and soft over his hand, glowing in the lamplight as Fai-dono laps at his palm with hunger, and the shadow of something Mariko cannot name lifts from the fall of his gaze.

“You cannot give him this – but he would not ask it.” Kurogane-dono huffs a breath, a twist to his mouth that could be amusement. “He barely asks it from me as much as he needs it.” His free hand, the one that is not true flesh, rises to rest gently at the crown of Fai-dono’s head, dark fingers tangling carefully in the soft spill of fair hair. “A long time ago now, he was very badly hurt,” says Kurogane-dono quietly. “I had to save him.” The voice of his memory, so low and aching, feels like thunder on the horizon: rumbling distant and powerful, breaking open the sky with the crack of lightning.

There is more to this story than Mariko is told, an answer to a question she will not ask and will never know the meaning of. It has long been her suspicion that it was no foreign _princess_ that her _daimyo_ gave his flesh and bone to save – to learn he gave of his blood too is not so shocking at all. “It could be said that love is the most powerful force beneath the heavens themselves.” Certainly it is love in the way Kurogane-dono watches his husband now.

Fai-dono makes a sound, wounded and animal, prickling the skin at the nape of Mariko’s neck. The hand the _daimyo_ has laid upon his hair strokes slowly, silky locks spilling through his fingers like liquid gold. “Love,” says Kurogane-dono, “is _selfish_ – it takes someone else and makes them yours. But I protect what is mine, with all that I am.” His gaze is heavy where it falls, weighed down with that selfish love; it settles like a mantle over Fai-dono’s bowed head, flows down from the stoop of his shoulders to the slope of his back. “What else is strength for, but to protect?”

“And with all his strength, the _kannushi_ -sama looks to protect you.” Kurogane-dono does not flinch. He is man enough to meet his pain with open eyes and steely spine, but Mariko knows her words strike true as any bolt fired would: sinking deep into soft flesh left unguarded. “If you would do anything to keep him safe, then you cannot expect anything less from Fai-dono in his desire to protect you.”

“I know,” says Kurogane-dono. The thickness of his voice is brontide, rumbling and dark. “I have never doubted it.” Beneath the stroke of his hand, Fai-dono stirs; the stroke of his lips slowing in time with the flow of the _daimyo_ ’s blood, and when Kurogane-dono’s fingers curl a heavy lock of fair hair behind the shell of one pink ear, the _kannushi_ shudders all over as though shaking himself back from a dreaming daze and into wakefulness once more.

Slowly, and with the careful precision of a man drunk, Fai-dono lifts his head. His lips are wet and red, and his eyes – his eyes are _blue_. Gone is the gold that marks his dangerous nature, and behind soft lips his fangs are sheathed once more. “Mariko-san,” he rasps, in a voice thick and sore. “Do not let me take any more.”

“Idiot,” says Kurogane-dono, and raps the knuckles of his other hand – the hand with metal bones and skin that cannot be pierced – against the crown of his husband’s head. He is not particularly gentle about it, and Fai-dono whines in protest. “You’ll take as much as you need.” It is a statement that brooks no argument; one that has clearly been made many times before.

Mariko agrees wholly, but says nothing. All married couples must argue about the little things, from time to time; how else to ensure peaceful existence alongside one another? It must be no different where her Lord’s marriage is concerned.

“I’ve had enough for now,” says Fai-dono, and perhaps he is being honest; the look on Kurogane-dono’s face suggests that if he is not, there will be more given later and damn his protests. Still, the _daimyo_ must take his husband at his word; he says nothing but smooths his thumb across the swell of Fai-dono’s lip, wiping away the drops that cling wetly in red pearls to the corner of his mouth. The tenderness in the touch – in his eyes – is a secret for the two of them, in the way that all lovers have their own secrets: a shared history that cannot be understood by any but themselves.

Mariko clears her throat gently. “Your arm, please. I wish to see the wound.”

“Ah – let me,” says Fai-dono quietly, and ducks his head once more as though to press a kiss to the bloody line of the cut – except no, the gesture is not _quite_ a kiss, but something rather more feline: the quick lick-and-drag of a rasping tongue, catching the last red traces and sealing skin closed beneath the stroke of his mouth. “To close the wound,” says Fai-dono quietly, and he cannot quite meet Mariko’s gaze. Surely, he must know there is no censure here, and yet the roll of his shoulders as they slump suggest otherwise.

Without looking Kurogane-dono stretches his arm out and away from his husband, holding it out for Mariko’s regard, and true to Fai-dono’s word the wound is neatly closed: the slice shallow and reddened but no longer bleeding, the flushed edges of the cut meeting neatly once more. Instinct suggests Mariko should not cleanse the wound further, else she disturbs whatever magic there is in the touch of Fai-dono’s mouth, and so she does not; merely wraps a clean linen bandage over it in a tight, neat loop. Such a small wound is nothing, not when compared to the many her _daimyo_ has sustained in his life before Suwa. In the years that she has known him, Kurogane-dono has never been one to hide his scars.

“You’re going to smack me again if I tell you I’m sorry, aren’t you?” says Fai-dono quietly. Kurogane-dono snorts inelegantly, rapping his metal knuckles atop the _kannushi_ ’s fair head once more – answer enough for his husband, whose blue eyes shine with the gloss of tears unshed. “I figured as much,” sighs Fai-dono, straightening up to sit abashed in his bedding, the long tangle of his hair spilling over one shoulder. “Mariko-san. Please make sure he eats tonight, would you?”

“It’s morning,” says Kurogane-dono bluntly, and Fai-dono’s answering smile is thin and slightly helpless.

“You see? Rarely does my stubborn husband listen to good sense.”

Privately, Mariko has always considered each of them men as stubborn as the other, but for the sake of peace in the _daimyo_ ’s household has wisely kept her opinions to herself. “Fai-dono, you must eat also. There is barley congee here, and tea.” Blood is blood, and the power in every drop enough to heal the spirit of the creature that her _kannushi_ is at his deepest core – but Fai-dono is also if not only a man, and men need sustenance as much as any other animal might. Denying himself what his body needs simply because he is no longer at the precipice of death is a very quick way to find himself back there once more.

“And _don’t_ say you’ve just eaten,” adds Kurogane-dono, his dark voice rumbling in a growl. The refusal is there, in the _kannushi_ ’s face, but evidently Kurogane-dono’s patience has snapped its last thread. “You will eat,” he says, in much the same tone another Lord might declare a land conquered, and abruptly Fai-dono softens, the sharp edge of his smile fading into something much more sombre.

“Kuro-sama,” says Fai-dono gently. “I really scared you, didn’t I?”

It’s a whisper, and one that perhaps Mariko is not meant to hear; certainly, the look in blue eyes is one for her _daimyo_ only, and it must be time now for Mariko to take her leave. Fai-dono is in the best of care with his husband in attendance, and so Mariko bustles around her tray in a show of indifference to the tension of emotion that unspools between her Lord and his Consort in tender aching silence. They have been here many times before: this place beyond an almost-loss, this place where any goodbye could have been the last but was quite suddenly _not_ , and now the rush of relief comes in to fill the quiet breath of absence like a tide returning to its home shore.

(There was a story before this moment, a story of two souls that should not have ever chanced to meet and yet they did; a story unspoken and unknown but for those whose lives it became in the telling.)

Gently, slowly, with an exaggeration of care, Fai-dono gathers his husband’s hand in his own; presses the touch of his lips to the bandage about Kurogane-dono’s wrist. A kiss in truth now, and lovingly given: a promise that says, with the solemnity of a vow, _I am still here._

Such a thing is private, and not to be witnessed.

Mariko makes her bows, accepting the nod given by Kurogane-dono as gratitude, but his gaze is only for his husband and moves quickly on from the movement Mariko makes as she gathers what she needs from the tray and takes her leave. Her steps are not so soundless across the _tatami_ as she clears the _daimyo_ ’s private quarters, but the soft words spoken behind her are clear nonetheless, for all she tries not to listen – ah, but she is only human if she catches their voices all the same, and like all lovers they speak without care for those that might hear them.

“Never again. Idiot.”

“Ah, my Kuro-sama is _so_ _romantic_ – his sweet words are poetry, they make my heart sing.”

“ _Idiot_ ,” once more, as affectionate as it is irritated, and Mariko closes the _shoji_ gently against the sound of what can only be a kiss. If there are more words spoken, she does not linger to hear them, and her footsteps sing upon the nightingale floors as she walks slowly down the hallway once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long live the Lord and Lord-Consort of Suwa province!
> 
> anko-dango: red-bean flavoured dango  
> bira-bira kanzashi: hair ornaments with pretty dangly bits  
> chirime: patterned silk  
> daimyo: a 'great lord' or 'great name' - a feudal lord in service to the shogun or emperor  
> dango: a sticky sweet made from rice flour and served on sticks  
> furisode: a long-sleeved and extravagant kimono  
> geta: solid wooden sandals with pegs and cords that pass between the toes  
> haori: an overcoat  
> kannushi: a priest dedicated in service to a particular shrine and kami  
> kanzashi: hair ornaments  
> komadori: a small bird known as the Japanese Robin  
> kunoichi: a female ninja  
> mikan: a small citrus fruit similar to an orange or mandarin  
> miko: a priestess or shrine attendant  
> mon: a crest or emblem, usually belonging to a family or political organisation  
> nightingale floors: floorboards with wires and bells strung beneath them; every step triggers the bells to chime as an early warning system  
> sedoka: a call-and-response style of romantic poem  
> senbakoki: a traditional tool for threshing rice by hand, with a wooden handle and metal spokes  
> shinobi: a ninja  
> shoji: sliding doors with thin paper panels  
> tabi: split-toed socks  
> tatami: woven straw matting  
> tenshu: the inner-most tower of a traditional castle structure  
> tokonoma: an alcove for a small shrine or scroll


End file.
